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I THE WAYS OF 

I MEN 



BY 

/ 

Eliot Gregory 

{''An Idler'') 
Author of " Worldly Ways and Byways^ 




NEW YORK 

Charles Scribner's Sons 

MCM 



Copyright^ 1900, by Charles Scribner^s Sons 

rVv/O COPIES i-(H^ti V ^o. 

Library of Coegriti^ 

Office of tli« y^ )7^^ 

Register of Copyflghfn'^ ^ ' 

O.// 36/ 

SECOND COPY. 



Z). ^. Updike^ The Merrymount Press, Boston 



Edith JVharton 

"/ have not lacked thy mild re-proofs 
Nor golden largess of thy praised 



A Table of Contents 



1. "Uncle Sam" i 

2. Domestic Despots 6 

3. Cyrano, Rostand, Coquelin 14 

4. fEMachine-made <EMen 25 

5. 'Parnassus 34 

6. ^Modern zArchtteSiure 42 

7. Worldly Color-'Blindness 53 

8. Idling in ^Mid-ocean 60 

9. '■''Climbers'''' in England 67 

10. Calve at Cabrieres 75 

1 1. (L^ Cry for Fresh <tAir 83 

1 2. Ti^^* ^aris of our (grandparents 91 

13. «Sowd' (^American Husbands 99 

14. "Carolus" 107 

15. T'he Qrand Opera Fad 1 14 

16. Ti^^ Noetic Cabarets of'^aris 126 

17. Etiquette at Home and aAbroad 141 

18. What is '^zArt''? 148 

19. T/^£' genealogical Craze 155 

20. (t^i" the 'Twig is '^ent 162 

2 1 . *S'(?t;^;z Small Duchesses 170 

22. growing Old Ungracefully 180 

23. aAround a Spring 186 

24. T*/^^ Sd-Z/^T ^^r/ 194 

[v] 



^ TABLE OF CONTENTS 

No. 25. La Comedie Fran ^aise a Orange 201 

26. T^re-paiatia I 5N^wport 210 

2y . '^^ivdion at <S\iarly-le-'^y 218 

28. Inconsistencies 230 

29. (^Modern " Cadets de (jascogne " 239 

30. T'/^d' 'Dinner and the "Drama 249 

31. 7"/4^ <3V[odern Aspasia 258 

32. <iA d^tion in a Hurry 264 

33. The Spirit of History 2j() 



[vi] 



The Ways of Men 



The Ways of Men 



JSfo- I 

^^Uncle Sam'''* 



THE gentleman who graced the guberna- 
torial arm-chair of our state when this 
century was born happened to be an 
admirer of classic lore and the sonorous names 
of antiquity. 

It is owing to his weakness in bestowing pom- 
pous cognomens on our embryo towns and vil- 
lages that to-day names like Utica, Syracuse, 
and Ithaca, instead of evoking visions of historic 
pomp and circumstance, raise in the minds of 
most Americans the pidure of cocky little cities, 
rich only in trolley-cars and Methodist meeting- 
houses. 

When, however, this cultured governor, in his 
ardor, christened one of the cities Troy, and the 
hill in its vicinity Mount Ida, he little dreamed 
that a youth was living on its slopes whose name 
was destined to become a household word the 
world over, as the synonym for the proudest 
and wealthiest republic yet known to history, a 
sobriquet that would be familiar in the mouths 



THE W^rS OF rMEOX^ 

of races to whose continents even the titles of 
Jupiter or Mars had never penetrated. 

A little before this century began, two boys 
with packs bound on their stalwart shoulders 
walked from New York and established a brick- 
yard in the neighborhood of what is now Perry 
Street, Troy. Ebenezer and Samuel Wilson soon 
became esteemed citizens of the infant city, their 
kindliness and benevolence winning for them the 
affection and respe6t of the community. 

The younger brother, Samuel, was an especial 
favorite with the children of the place, whose ex- 
plorations into his deep pockets were generally re- 
warded by the discovery of some simple "sweet" 
or home-made toy. The slender youth with the 
"nutcracker" face proving to be the merriest of 
playfellows, in their love his little band of admir- 
ers gave him the pet name of "Uncle Sam," by 
which he quickly became known, to the exclusion 
of his real name. This is the kindly and humble 
origin of a title the mere speaking of which to- 
day quickens the pulse and moistens the eyes of 
millions of Americans with the same thrill that 
the dear old flag arouses when we catch sight of 
it, especially an unexpected glimpse in some for- 
eign land. 

With increasing wealth the brick-yard of the 
Wilson brothers was replaced by an extensive 
slaughtering business, in which more than a hun- 
dred men were soon employed — a vast establish- 
ment for that day, killing weekly some thousand 



''UO^CLE S^3I" 



head of cattle. During the military operations of 
1 8 1 2 the brothers signed acontrad to furnish the 
troops at Greenbush with meat, "packed in full 
bound barrels of white oak"; soon after, Samuel 
was appointed Inspedlor of Provisions for the 
army. 

It is a curious coincidence that England also 
should have taken an ex-army-contradtor as her 
patron saint, for if we are to believe tradition, 
St. George of Cappadocia filled that position 
unsatisfa6torily before he passed through mar- 
tyrdom to sainthood. 

True prototype of the nation that was later to 
adopt him as its godfather, the shrewd and honest 
patriot, "Uncle Sam," not only lived loyally up 
to his contrads, giving full measure and of his 
best, but proved himself incorruptible, making it 
his business to see that others too fulfilled their 
engagements both in the letter and the spirit; so 
that the " U. S." (abbreviation of United States) 
which he pencilled on all provisions that had 
passed his inspection became in the eyes of offi- 
cers and soldiers a guarantee of excellence. Sam- 
uel's old friends, the boys of Troy (now enlisted 
in the army), naively imagining that the mystic 
initials were an allusion to the pet name they had 
given him years before, would accept no meats 
but "Uncle Sam's," murmuring if other viands 
were offered them. Their comrades without in- 
quiry followed this example; until so strong did 
the prejudice for food marked " U. S." become, 

[3] 



THE W^YS OF mEO^ 

that other contractors, in order that their provi- 
sions should find favor with the soldiers, took to 
announcing "Uncle Sam" brands. 

To the greater part of the troops, ignorant (as 
are most Americans to-day) of the real origin of 
this pseudonym, "Uncle Sam's" beef and bread 
meant merely government provisions, and the 
step from national belongings to an impersona- 
tion of our country by an ideal "Uncle Sam" 
was but a logical sequence. 

In his vigorous old age, Samuel Wilson again 
lived on Mount Ida, near the estates of the War- 
ren family, where as children we were taken to 
visit his house and hear anecdotes of the aged 
patriot's hospitality and humor. The honor in 
which he was held by the country-side, the in- 
fluence for good he exerted, and the informal tri- 
bunal he held, to which his neighbors came to get 
their differences straightened out by his common 
sense, are still talked of by the older inhabitants. 
One story in particular used to charm our boy- 
ish ears. It was about a dispute over land between 
the Livingstons and the Van Rensselaers, which 
was brought to an end by "Uncle Sam's" pro- 
ducing a barrel of old papers (confided to him by 
both families during the war, for safe keeping) 
and extracting from this original "strong box" 
title deeds to the property in litigation. 

Now, in these troubled times of ours, when 
rumors of war are again in the air, one's thoughts 
revert with pleasure to the half-mythical figure 

[4] 



UO^CLE s^m" 



on the threshold of the century, and to legends 
of the clear-eyed giant, with the quizzical smile 
and the tender, loyal heart, whose life's work 
makes him a more lovable model and a nobler 
example to hold up before the youth of to-day 
than all the mythological deities that ever dis- 
ported themselves on the original Mount Ida. 
There is a singular fitness in this choice of 
"Uncle Sam" as our patron saint, for to be hon- 
est and loyal and modest, to love little children, 
to do one's duty quietly in the heyday of life, and 
become a mediator in old age, is to fulfil about 
the whole duty of man; and every patriotic heart 
must wish the analogy may be long maintained, 
that our loved country, like its prototype, may 
continue the protestor of the feeble and a peace- 
maker among nations. 



[J] 



N"- 2 

Domestic Despots 

THOSE who walk through the well-to-do 
quarters of our city, and glance, perhaps 
a little enviously as they pass, toward 
the cheerful firesides, do not refled that in al- 
most every one of these apparently happy homes 
a pitiless tyrant reigns, a misshapen monster with- 
out bowels of compassion or thought beyond its 
own greedy appetites, who sits like Sinbad's aw- 
ful burden on the necks of tender women and 
distradted men. Sometimes this incubus takes the 
form of a pug, sometimes of a poodle, or simply 
a bastard cur admitted to the family bosom in a 
moment of unreflecting pity; size and pedigree 
are of no importance; the result is always the 
same. Once Caliban is installed in his stronghold, 
peace and independence desert that roof. 

We read daily of fathers tyrannizing over 
trembling families, of stepmothers and unnatu- 
ral children turning what might be happy homes 
into amateur Infernos, and sigh, as we think of 
martyrdoms endured by overworked animals. 

It is cheering to know that societies have been 
formed for the protedion of dumb brutes and 
helpless children. Will no attempt be made to 
alleviate this other form of suffering, which has 
apparently escaped the eye of the reformer ? 

The animal kingdom is divided — like all 

[6] 



T>Om ESTIC T>ESTOTS 

Gaul — into three divisions: wild beasts, that 
are obliged to hustle for themselves; laboring 
and producing animals, for which man provides 
because they are useful to him — and dogs ! Of 
all created things on our globe the canine race 
have the softest "snap." The more one thinks 
about this curious exception in their favor the 
more unaccountable it appears. We negled: such 
wild things as we do not slaughter, and exadt toil 
from domesticated animals in return for their 
keep. Dogs alone, shirking all cares and labor, 
live in idle comfort at man's expense. 

When that painful family jar broke up the 
little garden party in Eden and forced our first 
parents to work or hunt for a living, the origi- 
nal Dog (equally disgusted with either alterna- 
tive) hit on the luminous idea of posing as the 
champion of the disgraced couple, and attached 
himself to Adam and Eve; not that he approved 
of their conduct, but simply because he foresaw 
that if he made himself companionable and cosy 
he would be asked to stay to dinner. 

From that day to the present, with the excep- 
tion of occasionally watching sheep and houses 
— a lazy occupation at the best — and a little 
light carting in Belgium (dogs were given up as 
turn-spits centuries ago, because they performed 
that duty badly), no canine has raised a paw to 
do an honest day's work, neither has any mem- 
ber of the genus been known voluntarily to per- 
form a useful ad:. 

[7] 



THE IF^rS OF mEO^ 

How then — one asks one's self in a wonder 
— did the myth originate that Dog was the 
friend of Man? Like a multitude of other fal- 
lacies taught to innocent children, this folly must 
be unlearned later. Friend of man, indeed! Why, 
the "Little Brothers of the Rich" are guileless 
philanthropists in comparison with most canines, 
and unworthy to be named in the same breath 
with them. Dogs discovered centuries ago that 
to live in luxury, it was only necessary to as- 
sume an exaggerated affedlion for some wealthy 
mortal, and have since proved themselves past 
masters in a difficult art in which few men suc- 
ceed. The number of human beings who man- 
age to live on their friends is small, whereas the 
veriest mongrel cur contrives to enjoy food and 
lodging at some dupe's expense. 

Fad:s such as these, however, have not over- 
thrown the great dog myth. One can hardly open 
a child's book without coming across some tale 
of canine intelligence and devotion. My tender 
youth was saddened by the story of one disin- 
terested dog that refused to leave his master's 
grave and was found frozen at his post on a bleak 
winter's morning. With the experience of years 
in pet dogs I now susped that, instead of ading 
in this theatrical fashion, that pup trotted home 
from the funeral with the most prosperous and 
simple-minded couple in the neighborhood, and 
after a substantial meal went to sleep by the fire. 
He must have been a clever dog to get so much 

[8 ] 



T>OMESriC T>ESTOTS 

free advertisement, so probably strolled out to 
his master's grave the next noon, when people 
were about to hear him, and howled a little to 
keep up appearances. 

I have written "the richest and most simple- 
minded couple," because centuries of self-seek- 
ing have developed in these beasts an especial 
aptitude for spotting possible vidlims at a glance. 
You will rarely find dogs coquetting with the 
strong-minded or wasting blandishments where 
there is not the probability of immediate profit; 
but once let even a puppy get a tender-hearted 
girl or aged couple under his influence, no pity 
will be shown the vidims. 

There is a house not a square away from Mr. 
Gerry's philanthropic headquarters, where a state 
of things exists calculated to extrad tears from a 
custom-house official. Two elderly virgins are 
there held in bondage by a Minotaur no bigger 
than your two fists. These good dames have a 
taste for travelling, but change of climate dis- 
agrees with their tyrant. They dislike house- 
keeping and, like good Americans, would prefer 
hotel life, nevertheless they keep up an estab- 
lishment in a cheerless side street, with a retinue 
of servants, because, forsooth, their satrap exadls 
a back yard where he can walk of a morning. 
These spinsters, although loving sisters, no 
longer go about together, Caligula's nerves be- 
ing so shaken that solitude upsets them. He 
would sooner expire than be left alone with the 

[9] 



THE W^ATS OF m E IH^ 

servant, for the excellent reason that his bad 
temper and absurd airs have made him danger- 
ous enemies below stairs — and he knows it ! 

Another household in this city revolves around 
two brainless, goggle-eyed beasts, imported at 
much expense from the slopes of Fuji-yama. 
The care that is lavished on those heathen mon- 
sters passes belief. Maids are employed to carry 
them up and down stairs, and men are called in 
the night to hurryfor adodorwhenChi has over- 
eaten or Fu develops colic; yet their devoted 
mistress tells me, with tears in her eyes, that in 
spite of this care, when she takes her darlings for 
a walk they do not know her from the first stran- 
ger that passes, and will follow any boy who 
whistles to them in the street. 

What revolts me in the character of dogs is 
that, not content with escaping from the respon- 
sibilities entailed on all the other inhabitants of 
our globe by the struggle for existence, these 
four-legged Pecksniffs have succeeded in making 
for themselves a fallacious reputation for honesty 
and devotion. What little lingering belief I had 
in canine fidelity succumbed when I was told that 
St. Bernards — those models of integrity and 
courage — have fallen into the habit of carrying 
the flasks of brandy that the kind monks pro- 
vide for the succor of snowbound travellers, to 
the neighboring hamlets and exchanging the con- 
tents for — chops ! 

Will the world ever wake to the true charader 

[ >°] 



T>OMESTIC DESTOTS 

of these four-legged impostors and realize that 
instead of being disinterested and sincere, most 
family pets are consummate hypocrites. Inno- 
cent ? Pshaw ! Their pretty, coaxing ways and 
pretences of affeftion are unadulterated guile; 
their ostentatious devotion, simply a clever ma- 
noeuvre to excite interest and obtain unmerited 
praise. It is useless, however, to hope that things 
will change. So long as this giddy old world goes 
on waltzing in space, so long shall we continue 
to be duped by shams and pin our faith on frauds, 
confounding an attradtive bearing with a sweet 
disposition and mistaking dishevelled hair and 
eccentric appearance for brains. Even in the Ori- 
ent, where dogs have been granted immunity 
from other labor on the condition that they or- 
ganized an effedive street-cleaning department, 
they have been false to their trust and have evaded 
their contrails quite as if they were Tammany 
braves, like whom they pass their days in slum- 
ber and their nights in settling private disputes, 
while the city remains uncleaned. 

I nurse yet another grudge against the canine 
race! That Voltaire of a whelp, who imposed him- 
self upon our confiding first parents, must have 
had an important pull at headquarters, for he 
certainly succeeded in getting the decree con- 
cerning beauty and fitness which applies to all 
mammals, including man himself, reversed in 
favor of dogs, and handed down to his descend- 
ants the secret of making defe<5ts and deformities 

[ " ] 



THE iv^rs OF mE3^ 

pass current as qualities. While other animals 
are valued for sleek coats and slender propor- 
tions, canine monstrosities have always been in 
demand. We do not admire squints or protrud- 
ing under jaws in our own race, yet bulldogs 
have persuaded many weak-minded people that 
these defeds are charming when combined in an 
individual of their breed. 

The fox in the fable, who after losing his tail 
tried to make that bereavement the fashion, failed 
in his undertaking; Dutch canal-boat dogs have, 
however, been successful where the fox failed, 
and are to-day pampered and prized for a cur- 
tailment that would condemn any other animal 
(except perhaps a Manx cat) to a watery grave 
at birth. 

I can only recall two instances where canine 
sycophants got their deserts; the first tale (prob- 
ably apocryphal) is about a donkey, for years 
the silent vidim of a little terrier who had been 
trained to lead him to water and back. The dog 
— as might have been expeded — abused the 
situation, while pretending to be very kind to his 
charge, never allowed him to roll on the grass, 
as he would have liked, or drink in peace, and 
harassed the poor beast in many other ways, get- 
ting, however, much credit from the neighbors 
for devotion and intelligence. Finally, one day 
after months of waiting, the patient vi(5lim's chance 
came. Getting his tormentor well out into deep 
water, the donkey quietly sat down on him. 

[ 12 ] 



^DOMESTIC 'DESTOTS 

The other tale is true, for I knew the lady who 
provided in her will that her entire establishment 
should be kept up for the comfort and during the 
life of the three fat spaniels that had solaced her 
declining years. The heirs tried to break the will 
and failed; the delighted domestics, seeing before 
them a period of repose, proceeded (headed by 
the portly housekeeper) to consult a "vet" as to 
how the life of the precious legatees might be pro- 
longed to the utmost. His advice was to stop all 
sweets and rich food and give each of the animals 
at least three hours of hard exercise a day. From 
that moment the lazy brutes led a dog's life. 
Water and the detested "Spratt" biscuit, scorned 
in happier days, formed their meagre ordinary; 
instead of somnolent airings in a softly cushioned 
landau they were torn from chimney corner mus- 
ings to be raced through cold, muddy streets by 
a groom on horseback. 

Those two tales give me the keenest pleasure. 
When I am received on entering a friend's room 
with a chorus of yelps and attacked in dark cor- 
ners by snarling little hypocrites who fawn on me 
in their master's presence, I humbly pray that 
some such Nemesis may be in store for these faux 
bonhommes before they leave this world, as ap- 
parently no provision has been made for their 
punishment in the next. 



[ u] 



Cyrano^ Rostand^ Coquelin 

y4 MONG the proverbs of Spanish folk-lore 

ZJk there is a saying that good wine retains 
A. J^ its flavor in spite of rude bottles and 
cracked cups. The success of M. Rostand's bril- 
liant drama, Cyrano de Bergerac^ in its English 
dress proves once more the truth of this adage. 
The fun and pathos, the wit and satire, of the 
original pierce through the halting, feeble trans- 
lation like light through a ragged curtain, daz- 
zling the spectators and setting their enthusiasm 
ablaze. 

Those who love the theatre at its best, when 
it appeals to our finer instindls and moves us to 
healthy laughter and tears, owe a debt of grati- 
tude to Richard Mansfield for his courage in 
giving us, as far as the difference of language 
and rhythm would allow, this chef d' ceuvre un- 
changed, free from the mutilations of the adapter, 
with the author's wishes and the stage decora- 
tions followed into the smallest detail. In this 
way we profit by the vast labor and study which 
Rostand and Coquelin gave to the original pro- 
duction. 

Rumors of the success attained by this play 
in Paris soon floated across to us. The two or 
three French booksellers here could not import 
the piece fast enough to meet the ever increas- 

[ H] 



Cri{jANO, I^OSr^NT), CO^UELICNi 

ing demand of our reading public. By the time 
spring came, there were few cultivated people 
who had not read the new work and discussed its 
original language and daring treatment. 

On arriving in Paris, my first evening was 
passed at the Porte St. Martin. After the piece 
was over, I dropped into Coquelin's dressing- 
room to shake this old acquaintance by the 
hand and give him news of his many friends 
in America. 

Coquelin in his dressing-room is one of the 
most delightful of mortals. The effort of play- 
ing sets his blood in motion and his wit spar- 
kling. He seemed as fresh and gay that evening 
as though there were not five killing ad:s behind 
him and the fatigue of a two-hundred-night run, 
uninterrupted even by Sundays, added to his 
"record." 

After the operation of removing his historic 
nose had been performed and the a6lor had re- 
sumed his own clothes and features, we got into 
his carriage and were driven to his apartment in 
the Place de I'Etoile, a cosy museum full of 
comfortable chairs and priceless bric-a-brac. The 
conversation naturally turned during supper on 
the piece and this new author who had sprung 
in a night from obscurity to a globe-embracing 
fame. How, I asked, did you come across the 
play, and what decided you to produce it? 

Coquelin's reply was so interesting that it will 
be better to repeat the ador's own words as he 

[ -5] 



THE IV^rS OF 3IE3^ 

told his tale over the dismantled table in the 
tranquil midnight hours. 

"I had, like most Parisians, known Rostand 
for some time as the author of a few graceful 
Ytrs^s2.r\<\3.'^\2.Y ( Les Romanesques ) -which passed 
almost unnoticed at the Fran^ais. 

"About four years ago Sarah Bernhardt asked 
me to her ' hotel ' to hear M. Rostand read a play 
he had just completed for her. I accepted reluc- 
tantly, as at that moment we were busy at the 
theatre. I also doubted if there could be much 
in the new play to interest me. It was La Prin- 
cesse Lointaine. I shall remember that afternoon 
as long as I live ! From the first line my atten- 
tion was riveted and my senses were charmed. 
What struck me as even more remarkable than 
the piece was the masterly power and finish with 
which the boyish author delivered his lines. 
Where, I asked myself, had he learned that dif- 
ficult art? The great adress, always quick to re- 
spond to the voice of art, accepted the play then 
and there. 

"After the reading was over I walked home 
with M. Rostand, and had a long talk with him 
about his work and ambitions. When we parted 
at his door, I said: *In my opinion, you are des- 
tined to become the greatest dramatic poet of the 
age; I bind myself here and now to take any play 
you write (in which there is a part for me) with- 
out reading it, to cancel any engagements I may 
have on hand, and produce your piece with the 

[ -6] 



crT{j^NO, ^{^osr^N'D, co^uelij^ 

least possible delay.' An offer I don't imagine 
many young poets have ever received, and which 
I certainly never before made to any author. 

"About six weeks later my new acquaintance 
dropped in one morning to read me the sketch 
he had worked out for a drama, the title role of 
which he thought would please me. I was de- 
lighted with the idea, and told him to go ahead, 
A month later we met in the street. On asking 
him how the play was progressing, to my aston- 
ishment he answered that he had abandoned that 
idea and hit upon something entirely different. 
Chance had thrown in his way an old volume of 
Cyrano de Bergerac's poems, which so delighted 
him that he had been reading up the life and 
death of that unfortunate poet. From this read- 
ing had sprung the idea of making Cyrano the 
central figure of a drama laid in the city of Riche- 
lieu, d'Artagnan, and the Prkieuses Ridicules^ a 
seventeenth-century Paris of love and duelling. 

"At first this idea struck me as unfortunate. 
The elder Dumas had worked that vein so well 
and so completely, I doubted if any literary gold 
remained for another author. It seemed foolhardy 
to resuscitate the Three Guardsmen epoch — and 
I doubted if it were possible to carry out his 
idea and play an intense and pathetic role dis- 
guised with a burlesque nose. 

"This contrasting of the grotesque and the 
sentimental was of course not new. Vi6lor Hugo 
had broken away from classic tradition when he 

[ '7] 



THE IV^rS OF mED^ 

made a hunchback the hero of a drama. There 
remained, however, the risk of our Parisian pub- 
lic not accepting the new situation seriously. It 
seemed to me like bringing the sublime peri- 
lously near the ridiculous. 

" Fortunately, Rostand did not share this opin- 
ion or my doubts. He was full of enthusiasm for 
his piece and confident of its success. We sat 
where we had met, under the trees of the Champs 
Elysees, for a couple of hours, turning the sub- 
jed: about and looking at the question from every 
point of view. Before we parted the poet had con- 
vinced me. The role, as he conceived it, was cer- 
tainly original, and therefore tempting, opening 
vast possibilities before my dazzled eyes. 

"I found out later that Rostand had gone 
straight home after that conversation and worked 
for nearly twenty hou rs without leaving the study, 
where his wife found him at daybreak, fast asleep 
with his head on a pile of manuscript. He was at 
my rooms the next day before I was up, sitting 
on the side of my bed, reading the result of his 
labor. As the story unfolded itself I was more and 
more delighted. His idea of resuscitating the 
quaint interior of the Hotel de Bourgogne Thea- 
tre was original, and the balcony scene, even in 
outline, enchanting. After the reading Rostand 
dashed off as he had come, and for many weeks 
I saw no more of him. 

"L^ Princesse Lointaine was, in the mean- 
time, produced by Sarah, first in London and then 

[ 18] 



Cri{j^NO, %^OST^NT>, CO^UELIO^ 

in Paris. In the English capital it was a failure; 
with us it gained a succes d'esiime, the fantastic 
grace and lightness of the piece saving it from 
absolute shipwreck in the eyes of the literary- 
public. 

"Between ourselves," continued Coquelin, 
pushing aside his plate, a twinkle in his small 
eyes, "is the reason of this lack of success very 
difficult to discover.? The Princess in the piece 
is supposed to be a fairy enchantress in her six- 
teenth year. The play turns on her youth and in- 
nocence. Now, honestly, is Sarah, even on the 
stage, any one's ideal of youth and innocence?" 
This was asked so naively that I burst into a 
laugh, in which my host joined me. Unfortu- 
nately, this grandmamma, like Ellen Terry, can- 
not be made to understand that there are roles 
she should leave alone, that with all the illusions 
the stage lends she can no longer play girlish parts 
with success. 

"The failure of his play produced the most 
disastrous effedl on Rostand, who had given up a 
year of his life to its composition and was pro- 
foundly chagrined by its fall. He sank into a mild 
melancholy, refusing for more than eighteen 
months to put pen to paper. On the rare occa- 
sions when we met I urged him to pull himself 
together and rise above disappointment. Little by 
little, his friends were able to awaken his dormant 
interest and get him to work again on Cyrano. 
As he slowly regained confidence and began tak- 

[ 19] 



THE W^rS OF mEO^ 

ing pleasure once more in his work, the boyish 
author took to dropping in on me at impossible 
morning hours to read some scene hot from his 
ardent brain. When seated by my bedside, he de- 
claimed his lines until, Ht at his flame, I would 
jump out of bed, and wrapping my dressing- 
gown hastily around me, seize the manuscript 
out of his hands, and, before I knew it, find my- 
self addressing imaginary audiences, poker in 
hand, in lieu of a sword, with any hat that came 
to hand doing duty for the plumed headgear of 
our hero. Little by little, line upon line, the mas- 
terpiece grew under his hands. My career as an 
a6tor has thrown me in with many forms of lit- 
erary industry and dogged application, but the 
powerof sustained effort and untiring, unflagging 
zeal possessed by that fragile youth surpassed 
anything I had seen. 

"As the work began taking form, Rostand 
hired a place in the country, so that no visitors 
or invitations might tempt him away from his 
daily toil. Rich, young, handsome, married to a 
woman all Paris was admiring, with every door, 
social or Bohemian, wide open before his birth 
and talent, he voluntarily shut himselfup for over 
a year in a dismal suburb, allowing no amusement 
to disturb his incessant toil. Mme. Rostand has 
since told me that at one time she seriously feared 
for his reason if not for his life, as he averaged 
ten hours a day steady work, and when the spell 
was on him would pass night after night at his 

[20] 



Cr^^NO, ^OSTJ:NT>, C0^UELI3^ 

study table, rewriting, cutting, modelling his play, 
never contented, always striving after a more ex- 
pressive adjediive, a more harmonious or original 
rhyme, casting aside a month's finished work with- 
out a second thought when he judged that another 
form expressed his idea more perfectly. 

" That no success is cheaply bought I have long 
known ; my profession above all others is calcu- 
lated to teach one that truth. 

"If Rostand's play is the best this century has 
produced, and our greatest critics are unanimous 
in pronouncing it equal, if not superior, to Vic- 
tor Hugo's masterpieces, the young author has 
not stolen his laurels, but gained them leaf by 
leaf during endless midnight hours of brain- 
wringing effort — a price that few in a generation 
would be willing to give or capable of giving for 
fame. The labor had been in proportion to the 
success; it always is! I doubt if there is one word 
in his ^duel' ballad that has not been changed 
again and again for a more fitting expression, as 
one might assort the shades of a mosaic until a 
harmonious whole is produced. I have there in 
my desk whole scenes that he discarded because 
they were not essential to the aftion of the piece. 
They will probably never be printed, yet are as 
brilliant and cost their author as much labor as 
any that the public applauded to-night. 

"As our rehearsals proceeded I saw another 
side of Rostand's charadter; the energy and en- 
durance hidden in his almost effeminate frame 

[21 ] 



THE TV^rS OF MEO^ 

astonished us all. He almost lived at the theatre, 
drilling each a6lor, designing each costume, or- 
dering the setting of each scene. There was not 
a dress that he did not copy from some old print, 
or a passade that he did not indicate to the hum- 
blest member of the troop. The marvellous dic- 
tion that I had noticed during the reading at 
Sarah's served him now and gave the key to 
the entire performance. I have never seen him 
peevish or discouraged, but always courteous and 
cheerful through all those weary weeks of repe- 
tition, when even the most enthusiastic feel 
their courage oozing away under the awful grind 
of afternoon and evening rehearsal, the latter 
beginning at midnight after the regular perfor- 
mance was over. 

"The news was somehow spread among the 
theatre-loving public that something out of the 
ordinary was in preparation. The papers took up 
the tale and repeated it until the whole capital was 
keyed up to concert pitch. The opening night 
was eagerly awaited by the critics, the literary and 
the artistic worlds. When the curtain rose on the 
first ad; there was the emotion of a great event 
floating in the air." Here Coquelin's face as- 
sumed an intense expression I had rarely seen 
there before. He was back on the stage, living 
over again the glorious hours of that night's tri- 
umph. His breath was coming quick and his eyes 
aglow with the memory of that evening. "Never, 
never have I lived through such an evening. 

[22] 



CrT{^^NO, 1{^0Sr^NT>, C0^UELI3^ 

Vi(5tor Hugo's greatest triumph, the first night 
of Hernani^ was the only theatrical event that can 
compare to it. It, however, was injured by the en- 
mity of a clique who persistently hissed the new 
play. There is but one phrase to express the 
enthusiasm at our first performance — une salle 
en delire gives some idea of what took place. As 
the curtain fell on each succeeding ad: the entire 
audience would rise to its feet, shouting and cheer- 
ing for ten minutes at a time. The coulisse and the 
dressing-rooms were packed by the critics and the 
author's friends, beside themselves with delight. 
I was trembling so I could hardly get from one 
costume into another, and had to refuse my door 
to every one. Amid all this confusion Rostand 
alone remained cool and seemed unconscious of 
his vidtory. He continued quietly giving last rec- 
ommendations to the figurants, overseeing the 
setting of the scenes, and thanking the adors as 
they came off the stage, with the same self-pos- 
sessed urbanity he had shown during the rehear- 
sals. Finally, when the play was over, and we had 
time to turn and look for him, our author had 
disappeared, having quietly driven off with his 
wife to their house in the country, from which 
he never moved for a week." 

It struck two o'clock as Coquelin ended. The 
sleepless city had at last gone to rest. At our feet, 
as we stood by the open window, the great square 
around the Arc de Triomphe lay silent and empty, 
its vast arch rising dimly against the night sky. 

[ n ] 



THE W^rS OF 3IED^ 

As I turned to go, Coquelin took my hand 
and remarked, smiling: "Now you have heard 
the story of a genius, an ad:or,and a masterpiece." 



[h] 



^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ "^ ^ ^ ^ ^ V ^ ^ ^ >> V X^ "^ x!' x!* %«' N^ X^ S^ X^ >!'' 

Machine-made Men 



AMONG the commonplace white and yel- 
low envelopes that compose the bulk of 
L one's correspondence, appear from time 
to time dainty epistles on tinted paper, adorned 
with crests or monograms. "Ha! ha !" I think 
when one of these appears, "here is something 
worth opening !" For between ourselves, reader 
mine, old bachelors love to receive notes from 
women. It's so flattering to be remembered by 
the dear creatures, and recalls the time when life 
was beginning, and ■poulets in feminine writing 
suggested such delightful possibilities. 

Only this morning an envelope of delicate 
Nile green caused me a distind: thrill of antici- 
pation. To judge by appearances it could contain 
nothing less attradive than a declaration, so, tear- 
ing it hurriedly open, I read: "Messrs. Sparks 
& Splithers take pleasure in calling attention to 
their patent suspenders and newest designs in 
reversible paper collars!" 

Now, if that 's not enough to put any man in 
a bad humor for twenty-four hours, I should like 
to know what is? Moreover, I have "patents" 
in horror, experience having long ago revealed 
the fad; that a patent is pretty sure to be only a 
new way of doing fast and cheaply something that 
formerly was accomplished slowly and well. 



THE iv^rs OF mED^ 

Few people stop to think how quickly this 
land of ours is degenerating into a paradise of 
the cheap and nasty, but allow themselves to be 
heated and cooled and whirled about the streets 
to the detriment of their nerves and digestions, 
under the impression that they are enjoying the 
benefits of modern progress. 

So complex has life become in these later days 
that the very beds we lie on and the meals we eat 
are controlled by patents. Every garment and 
piece of furniture now pays a "royalty" to some 
inventor, from the hats on our heads to the car- 
pets under foot, which latter are not only manu- 
fadlured, but cleaned and shaken by machinery, 
and (be it remarked en passant) lose their nap pre- 
maturely in the process. To satisfy our national 
love of the new, an endless and nameless variety 
of trifles appears each season, so-called labor and 
time-saving combinations, that enjoy a brief hour 
of vogue, only to make way for a newer series 
of inventions. 

As long as our geniuses confined themselves 
to making life one long and breathless scramble, 
it was bad enough, but a line should have been 
drawn where meddling with the sanctity of the 
toilet began. This, alas ! was not done. Nothing 
has remained sacred to the inventor. In conse- 
quence, the average up-to-date American is a 
walking colledion of Yankee notions, an inge- 
nious illusion, made up of patents, requiring as 
nice adjustment to put together and undo as a 

[ ^6 ] 



3i ^CHINE-M^T>E 3i E 0^ 

thirteenth-century warrior, and carrying hardly 
less metal about his person than a Crusader of 
old. 

There are a number of haberdashery shops on 
Broadway that have caused me to waste many 
precious minutes gazing into their windows and 
wondering what the strange instruments of steel 
and elastic could be, that were exhibited along- 
side of the socks and ties. The uses of these would, 
in all probability, have remained wrapped in mys- 
tery but for the experience of one fateful morn- 
ing (after a night in a sleeping-car), when count- 
less hidden things were made clear, as I sat, an 
awe-struck witness to my fellow-passengers' — 
toilets ? — No ! Getting their machinery into run- 
ning order for the day, would be a more corred 
expression. 

Originally, "tags" were the backbone of the 
toilet, different garments being held together by 
their aid. Later, buttons and attendant button- 
holes were evolved, now replaced by the devices 
used in composing the machine-made man. As 
far as I could see (I have overcome a natural 
delicacy in making my discoveries public, be- 
cause it seems unfair to keep all this information 
to myself), nothing so archaic as a button-hole 
is employed at the present time by our patent- 
ridden compatriots. The shirt, for instance, 
which was formerly such a simple-minded and 
straightforward garment, knowing no guile, has 
become, in the hands of the inventors, a mere 

[^7] 



THE W^rS OF mE3^ 

pretence, a frail scaffold, on which an elaborate 
superstructure of shams is ereded. 

The varieties of this garment that one sees in 
the shop windows, exposing virgin bosoms to 
the day, are not what they seem ! Those very- 
bosoms are fakes, and cannot open, being instead 
pierced by eyelets, into which bogus studs are 
fixed by machinery. The owner is obliged to 
enter into those deceptive garments surrepti- 
tiously from the rear, by stratagem, as it were. 
Why all this trouble, one asks, for no apparent 
reason, except that old-fashioned shirts opened 
in front, and no Yankee will wear a non-patented 
garment — if he can help it? 

There was not a single accessory to the toilet 
in that car which behaved in a normal way. But- 
tons mostly backed into place, tail-end foremost 
(like horses getting between shafts), where some 
hidden mechanism screwed or clinched them to 
their moorings. 

Collars and cuffs (integral parts of the primi- 
tive garment) are now a labyrinth, in which all 
but the initiated must lose themselves, being 
double-decked, detachable, reversible, and made 
of every known substance except linen. The cuff 
most in favor can be worn four different ways, 
and is attached to the shirt by a steel instru- 
ment three inches long, with a nipper at each 
end. The amount of white visible below the coat- 
sleeve is regulated by another contrivance, mostly 
of elastic, worn further up the arm, around the 

[28] 



myICHINE-M^T>E mE3^ 

biceps. Modern collars are retained in position 
by a system of screws and levers. Socks are at- 
tached no longer with the old-fashioned garter, 
but by aid of a little harness similar to that worn 
by pug-dogs. 

One traveller, after lacing his shoes, adjusted 
a contrivance resembling a black beetle on the 
knot to prevent its untying. He also wore "hy- 
gienic suspenders," a discovery of great impor- 
tance (over three thousand patents have been 
taken out for this one necessity of the toilet!). 
This brace performs several tasks at the same 
time, such as holding unmentionable garments 
in place, keeping the wearer ered;, and providing 
a night-key guard. It is also said to cure liver and 
kidney disease by means of an arrangement of 
pulleys which throw the strain according to the 
wearer's position — I omit the rest of its qualities! 

The watches of my companions, I noticed with 
astonishment, all wore India-rubber ruffs around 
their necks. Here curiosity getting the better of 
discretion, I asked what purpose that invention 
served. It was graciously explained to me how 
such ruffs prevented theft. They were so made 
that it was impossible to draw your watch out of 
a pocket unless you knew the trick, which struck 
me as a mitigated blessing. In fad, the idea kept 
occurring that life might become terribly uncom- 
fortable under these complex conditions for ab- 
sent-minded people. 

Pencils, I find, are no longer put into pockets 



THE W^rS OF mEJi^ 

or slipped behind the ear. Every commercial 
"gent" wears a patent on his chest, where his 
pen and pencil nestle in a coil of wire. Eyeglasses 
are not allowed to dangle aimlessly about, as of 
old, but retire with a snap into an oval box, af- 
ter the fashion of roller shades. Scarf-pins have 
guards screwed on from behind, and undergar- 
ments — but here modesty stops my pen. 

Seeing that I was interested in their make-up, 
several travelling agents on the train got out their 
boxes and showed me the latest artifices that could 
be attached to the person. One gentleman pro- 
duced a colledion of rings made to go on the fin- 
ger with a spring, like bracelets, an arrangement, 
he explained, that was particularly convenient for 
people afflidled with enlarged joints! 

Another tempted me with what he called a 
"literary shirt front," — it was in fad: a paper 
pad, from which for cleanliness a leaf could be 
peeled each morning; the "wrong" side of the 
sheet thus removed contained a calendar, much 
useful information, and the chapters of a "con- 
tinued" story, which ended when the "dickey" 
was used up. 

A third traveller was "pushing" a collar-but- 
ton that plied as many trades as Figaro, com- 
bining the fundions of cravat-holder, stud, and 
scarf-pin. Not being successful in selling me one 
of these, he brought forward something" without 
which," he assured me, "no gentleman's ward- 
robe was complete" ! It proved to be an insidious 

[30] 



arrangement of gilt wire, which he adjusted on 
his poor, overworked collar-button, and then tied 
his cravat through and around it. "No tie thus 
made," hesaid, "would everslip or get crooked." 
He had been so civil that it was embarrassing 
not to buy something of him ; I invested twenty- 
five cents in the cravat-holder, as it seemed the 
least complicated of the patents on exhibition; 
not, however, having graduated in a school of 
mechanics I have never been able to make it 
work. It takes an hour to tie a cravat with its 
aid, and as long to get it untied. Most of the 
men in that car, I found, got around the diffi- 
culty by wearing ready-made ties which fastened 
behind with a clasp. 

It has been suggested that the reason our com- 
patriots have such a strained and anxious look is 
because they are all trying to remember the num- 
bers of their streets and houses, the floor their 
office is on, and the combination of their safes. 
I am inclined to think that the hunted look we 
wear comes from an awful fear of forgetting the 
secrets of our patents and being unable to undo 
ourselves in an emergency! 

Think for a moment of the horror of coming 
home tired and sleepy after a convivial evening, 
and finding that some of your hidden machinery 
had gone wrong; that by a sudden movement 
you had disturbed the nice balance of some lever 
which in revenge refused to release its prey! 
The inventors of one well-known cuff-holder 

[31 ] 



THE IVJirS OF mEO^ 

claim that it had a "bull-dog grip." Think of 
sitting dressed all night in the embrace of that 
mechanical canine until the inventor could be 
called in to set you free! 

I never doubted that bravery was the lead- 
ing charaderistic of the American temperament; 
since that glimpse into the secret composition of 
my compatriots, admiration has been vastly in- 
creased. The foolhardy daring it must require — 
dressed as those men were — to go out in a thun- 
der-storm makes one shudder: it certainly could 
not be found in any other race. The danger of 
cross-country hunting or bull-fighting is as noth- 
ing compared to the risk a modern American takes 
when he sits in a trolley-car, where the chances 
of his machinery forming a fatal "short circuit" 
must be immense. The utter impossibility in 
which he finds himself of making a toilet quickly 
on account of so many time-saving accessories 
must increase his chances of getting "left" in an 
accident about fifty per cent. Who but one of 
our people could contemplate with equanimity 
the thought of attempting the adjustment of such 
delicate and difficult combinations while a steamer 
was sinking and the life-boats being manned? 

Our grandfathers contributed the wooden nut- 
meg to civilization, and endowed a grateful uni- 
verse with other money-saving devices. To-day 
the inventor takes the American baby from his 
cradle and does not release him even at the 
grave. What a treat one of the machine-made 

[3^ 



m ^CHINE-M^DE mE:>^ 

men of to-day will be to the archasologists of the 
year 3000, when they chance upon a well-pre- 
served specimen, with all his patents thick upon 
him ! With a prophetic eye one can almost see the 
kindly old gentleman of that day studying the 
paraphernaHa found in the tomb and attempting 
to account for the different pieces. Ink will flow 
and discussions rage between the camp maintain- 
ing that cuff-holders were tutelar deities buried 
with the dead by pious relatives and the group 
asserting that the little pieces of steel were a form 
of pocket money in the year 1900. Both will 
probably misquote Tennyson and Kipling in 
support of their theories. 

The question has often been raised, What 
side of our nineteenth-century civilization will 
be most admired by future generations? In 
view of the above fadts there can remain little 
doubt that when the secrets of the paper collar 
and the trouser-stretcher have become lost arts, 
it will be those benefits that remote ages will 
envy us, and rare specimens of "ventilated 
shoes" and "reversible tissue-paper undergar- 
ments" will form the choicest treasures of the 
colledor. 



\.3i ] 



Parnassus 



MANY years ago, a gentleman with whom 
I was driving in a distant quarter of 
Paris took me to a house on the rue 
Montparnasse, where we remained an hour or 
more, he chatting with its owner, and I hstening 
to their conversation, and wondering at the con- 
fusion of books in the big room. As we drove 
away, my companion turned to me and said, 
"Don't forget this afternoon. You have seen one 
of the greatest writers our century has produced, 
although the world does not yet realize it. You 
will learn to love his works when you are older, 
and it will be a satisfaction to remember that you 
saw and spoke with him in the flesh !" 

When I returned later to Paris the little house 
had changed hands, and a marble tablet stat- 
ing that Sainte-Beuve had lived and died there 
adorned its facade. My student footsteps took 
me many times through that quiet street, but 
never without a vision of the poet-critic flashing 
back, as I glanced up at the window where he 
had stood and talked with us ; as my friend pre- 
dicted, Sainte-Beuve's writings had become a 
precious part of my small library, the memory 
of his genial face adding a vivid interest to their 
perusal. 

[34] 



T^RN^SSUS 



I made a little pilgrimage recently to the quiet 
old garden where, after many years' delay, a bust 
of this writer has been unveiled, with the same 
companion, now very old, who thirty years ago 
presented me to the original. 

There is, perhaps, in all Paris no more ex- 
quisite corner than the Garden of the Luxem- 
bourg. At every season it is beautiful. The winter 
sunlight seems to linger on its stately Italian ter- 
races after it has ceased to shine elsewhere. The 
first lilacs bloom here in the spring, and when 
midsummer has turned all the rest of Paris into 
a blazing, white wilderness, these gardens remain 
cool and tranquil in the heart of turbulent " Bo- 
hemia," a bit of fragrant nature filled with the 
song of birds and the voices of children. Surely 
it was a gracious inspiration that selected this 
shady park as the "Poets' Corner" of great, 
new Paris. Henri Murger, Leconte de Lisle, 
Theodore de Banville, Paul Verlaine, are here, 
and now Sainte-Beuve has come back to his fa- 
vorite haunt. Like Francois Coppee and Vi(5tor 
Hugo, he loved these historic allees^ and knew 
every stone in them as he knew the " Latin 
Quarter," for his life was passed between the 
bookstalls of the quays and the outlying street 
where he lived. 

As we sat resting in the shade, my companion, 
who had been one of Sainte-Beuve's pupils, fell 
to talking of his master, his memory refreshed by 
the familiar surroundings. " Can anything be sad- 

[3J] 



THE W^rS OF 31E0^ 

der," he said, "than finding a face one has loved 
turned into stone, or names that were the watch- 
words of one's youth serving as signs at street 
corners — la rue Flaubert or Theodore de Ban- 
ville? How far away they make the past seem! 
Poor Sainte-Beuve, that bust yonder is but a poor 
reward for a life of toil, a modest tribute to his en- 
cyclopaedic brain ! H is works, however, are his best 
monument ; he would be the last to repine or cavil. 

" The literary world of my day had two poles, 
between which it vibrated. The little house in 
the rue Montparnasse was one, the rock of 
Guernsey the other. We spoke with awe of 
'Father Hugo' and mentioned 'Uncle Beuve' 
with tenderness. The Goncourt brothers accepted 
Sainte-Beuve's judgment on their work as the ver- 
did: of a 'Supreme Court.' Not a poet or author 
of that day but climbed with a beating heart the 
narrow staircase that led to the great writer's li- 
brary. Paul Verlaine regarded as his literary di- 
ploma a letter from this 'Balzac de la critique.' 

"At the entrance of the quaint Passage du 
Commerce, under the arch that leads into the rue 
Saint-Andre-des-Arts, stands a hotel, where for 
years Sainte-Beuve came daily to work (away from 
the importunate who besieged his dwelling) in a 
room hired under the assumed name of Delorme. 
It was there that we sent him a basket of fruit one 
morning addressed to Mr. Delorme, ne Sainte- 
Beuve. It was there that most of his enormous 
labor was accomplished. 

[36] 



T^RN^SSUS 



"A curious corner of old Paris that Cour du 
Commerce! Just opposite his window was the 
apartment where Danton Hved. If one chose to 
seek for them it would not be hard to discover 
on the pavement of this same passage the marks 
made by a young dodor in decapitating sheep 
with his newly invented machine. The dodlor's 
name was Guillotin. 

" The great critic loved these old quarters filled 
with history. He was fond of explaining that 
Montparnasse had been a hill where the students 
of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries came 
to amuse themselves. In 1761 the slope was lev- 
elled and the boulevard laid out, but the name 
was predestined, he would declare, for the habi- 
tation of the *Parnassiens.' 

"His enemies pretended that you had but to 
mention Michelet, Balzac, and Victor Hugo to 
see Sainte-Beuve in three degrees of rage. He 
had, it is true, distind: expressions on hearing 
those authors discussed. The phrase then much 
used in speaking of an original personality, 'He 
is like a chara6ler out of Balzac,' always threw 
my master into a temper. I cannot remember, 
however, having seen him in one of those famous 
rages which made Barbey d'Aurevilly say that 
'Sainte-Beuve was a clever man with the temper 
of a turkey!' The former was much nearer the 
truth when he calkd the author of Les Lundis a 
French Wordsworth, or compared him to a lay 
benedi£lin. He had a way of reading a newly ac- 

[37] 



THE w^rs OF mED^ 

quired volume as he walked through the streets 
that was typical of his life. My master was always 
studying and always advancing. 

"He never entirely recovered from his morti- 
fication at being hissed by the students on the oc- 
casion of his first ledure at the College de France. 
Returning home he loaded two pistols, one for 
the first student who should again insult him, 
and the other to blow out his own brains. It was 
no idle threat. The man Guizot had nicknamed 
* Werther' was capable of executing his plan, for 
this causeless unpopularity was anguish to him. 
After his death, I found those two pistols loaded 
in his bedroom, but justice had been done another 
way. All opposition had vanished. Every student 
in the * Quarter' followed the modest funeral of 
their Senator, who had become the champion of 
literary liberty in an epoch when poetry was held 
in chains. 

" The Empire which made him Senator gained, 
however, but an indocile recruit. On his one visit 
to Compiegne in 1863, the Emperor, wishing to 
be particularly gracious, said to him, *I always 
read the Moniteur on Monday, when your arti- 
cle appears.' Unfortunately for this compliment, 
it was the Constitutionnel t\\?it had been publishing 
the Nouveaux Lundis for more than four years. 
In spite of the united efforts of his friends, Sainte- 
Beuve could not be brought to the point of com- 
plimenting Napoleon III. on his Life of Casar. 

"The author of L.es Consolations remained 

[38] 



T^RN^SSUS 



through life the proudest and most indepen- 
dent of men, a bourgeois, enemy of all tyranny, 
asking protection of no one. And what a worker ! 
Reading, sifting, studying, analyzing his subjed: 
before composing one of his famous Lundis, a lit- 
erary portrait which he aimed at making complete 
and final. One of these articles cost him as much 
labor as other authors give to the composition of 
a volume. 

" By way of amusement on Sunday evenings, 
when work was temporarily laid aside, he loved 
the theatre, delighting in every kind of play, 
from the broad farces of the Palais Royal to the 
tragedies of Racine, and entertaining comedians 
in order, as he said, 'to keep young' ! One even- 
ing Theophile Gautier brought a pretty adress 
to dinner. Sainte-Beuve, who was past-master in 
the difficult art of conversation, and on whom 
a fair woman a6led as an inspiration, surpassed 
himself on this occasion, surprising even theGon- 
courts with his knowledge of the eighteenth cen- 
tury and the women of that time, Mme. de Bouf- 
flers. Mile, de Lespinasse, la Marechale de Lux- 
embourg. The hours flew by unheeded by all of 
his guests but one. The debutante was overheard 
confiding, later in the evening, to a friend at the 
Gymnase, where she performed in the last ad, 
*Ouf ! I 'm glad to get here. I Ve been dining 
with a stupid old Senator. They told me he would 
be amusing, but I 've been bored to death.' Which 
reminded me of my one visit to England, when 



THE W^/trS OF 31E0^ 

I heard a young nobleman declare that he had 
been to *such a dull dinner to meet a duffer called 
"Renan!"' 

" Sainte-Beuve's Larmes de Racine was given 
at the Theatre Fran^ais during its author's last 
illness. His disappointment at not seeing the 
performance was so keen that M. Thierry, then 
administrateur of La Comedie, took Mile. Favart 
to the rue Montparnasse, that she might recite 
his verses to the dying writer. When the a6tress, 
then in the zenith of her fame and beauty, came 
to the lines — 

yean Racine^ le grand poHe^ 
Le poke aimant et pieux^ 
Aprh que sa lyre muette 
Se fut vol lie a tons les yeuXy 
Renonfant a la gloire humaine, 
S^il sentait en son ame pleine 
he jlot contenu murmur er^ 
Ne savait que fondre en pr'ihre^ 
Pencher Vurne dans la poussihe 
Aux pieds du Seigneur^ et pleurer! 

the tears of Sainte-Beuve accompanied those of 
Racine!" 

There were tears also in the eyes my com- 
panion turned toward me as he concluded. The 
sun had set while he had been speaking. The 
marble of the statues gleamed white against the 
shadows of the sombre old garden. The guardians 
were closing the gates and warning the lingering 
visitors as we strolled toward the entrance. 

It seemed as if we had been for an hour in the 

[40] 



T^RN^SSUS 



presence of the portly critic; and the circle of bril- 
liant men and witty women who surrounded him 
— Flaubert, Tourgucneff, Theophile Gautier, 
Renan, George Sand — were realities at that mo- 
ment, not abstradions with great names. It was 
like returning from another age, to step out again 
into the glare and bustle of the Boulevard St. 
Michel. 



[41 ] 



N"- 6 

Modern Architecture 



IF a foreign tourist, ignorant of his where- 
abouts, were to sail about sunset up our 
spacious bay and view for the first time the 
eccentric sky-line of lower New York, he would 
rub his eyes and wonder if they were not play- 
ing him a trick, for distance and twilight lend the 
chaotic masses around the Battery a certain wild 
grace suggestive of Titan strongholds or prehis- 
toric abodes of Wotan, rather than the business 
part of a prad:ical modern city. 

"But," as John Drew used to say in The 
Masked Ball, "what a difference in the morn- 
ing!" when a visit to his banker takes the new 
arrival down to Wall Street, and our uncompro- 
mising American daylight dispels his illusions. 

Years ago spirituel Arthur Oilman mourned 
over the decay of architecture in New York and 
pointed out that Stewart's shop, at Tenth Street, 
bore about the same relation to Idinus' noble 
art as an iron cooking-stove! It is well death re- 
moved the Boston critic before our city entered 
into its present Brobdingnagian phase. If he con- 
sidered that Stewart's and the Fifth Avenue Ho- 
tel failed in artistic beauty, what would have been 
his opinion of the graceless piles that crowd our 
island to-day, beside which those older buildings 
seem almost classical in their simplicity? 

[4^] 



31 OD ERO^ ^RCH ITECTU%^E 

One hardly dares to think what impression a 
student familiar with the symmetry of Old World 
structures must receive on arriving for the first 
time, let us say, at the Bowling Green, for the 
truth would then dawn upon him that what ap- 
peared from a distance to be the ground level 
of the island was in reality the roof line of average 
four-story buildings, from among which the keeps 
and campaniles that had so pleased him (when 
viewed from the Narrows) rise like giganticweeds 
gone to seed in a field of grass. 

It is the heterogeneous character of the build- 
ings down town that renders our streets so hid- 
eous. Far from seeking harmony, builders seem 
to be trying to "go" each other "one story bet- 
ter"; if they can belittle a neighbor in the pro- 
cess it is clear gain, and so much advertisement. 
Certain blocks on lower Broadway are gems in 
this way ! Any one who has glanced at an auction- 
eer's shelves when a "job lot" of books is being 
sold, will doubtless have noticed their resem- 
blance to the sidewalks of our down town streets. 
Dainty little duodecimo buildings are squeezed 
in between towering in-folios, and richly bound 
and tooled o6tavos chum with cheap editions. 
Our careless City Fathers have not even given 
themselves the trouble of pushing their stone 
and brick volumes into the same line, but allow 
them to straggle along the shelf — I beg par- 
don, the sidewalk — according to their own sweet 
will. 

[43] 



THE PF^rS OF 3IED^ 

The resemblance of most new business build- 
ings to flashy books increases the more one stud- 
ies them; they have the proportions of school at- 
lases, and, like them, are adorned only on their 
backs (read fronts). The modern builder, like 
the frugal binder, leaves the sides of his crea- 
tions unadorned, and expends his ingenuity in 
decorating the narrow strip which he naively im- 
agines will be the only part seen, calmly ignoring 
the fad that on glancing up or down a street the 
sides of houses are what we see first. It is almost 
impossible to get mathematically opposite a 
building, yet that is the only point from which 
these new constructions are not grotesque. 

It seems as though the rudiments of common 
sense would suggest that under existing circum- 
stances the less decoration put on a facade the 
greater would be the harmony of the whole. But 
trifles like harmony and fitness are splendidly ig- 
nored by the architeds of to-day, who, be it re- 
marked in passing, have slipped into another cu- 
rious habitforwhich I should greatly like to see an 
explanation offered. As long as the ground floors 
and the tops of their creations are elaborate, the 
designer evidently thinks the intervening twelve 
or fifteen stories can shift for themselves. One 
clumsy mass on the Bowling Green is an excel- 
lent example of this weakness. Its ground floor 
is a playful reprodudion of the tombs of Egypt. 
About the second story the archited: must have 
become discouraged — or perhaps the owner's 

[44] 



m ODER^H^ ^RCHITECrVR^E 

funds gave out — for the next dozen floors are 
treated in the severest "tenement house" man- 
ner; then, as his building terminates well up in the 
sky, a top floor or two are, for no apparent reason, 
elaborately adorned. Indeed, this desire for a bril- 
liant finish pervades the neighborhood. The John- 
son Building on Broad Street (to choose one out 
of the many) is sober and discreet in design for 
a dozen stories, but bursts at its top into a By- 
zantine colonnade. Why? one asks in wonder. 

Another new-comer, corner of Wall and Nas- 
sau Streets, is a commonplace strudhire, with a 
fairly good cornice, on top of which — an after- 
thought, probably — a miniature State Capitol 
has been added, with dome and colonnade com- 
plete. The result recalls dear, absent-minded 
Miss Matty (in Mrs. Gaskell's charming story), 
when she put her best cap on top of an old one 
and sat smiling at her visitors from under the 
double headdress! 

Nowhere in the world — not even In Moscow, 
that city of domes — can one see such a collec- 
tion of pagodas, cupolas, kiosks, and turrets as 
grace the roofs of our office buildings! Archi- 
teds evidently look upon such adornments as 
compensations ! The more hideous the strudhire, 
the finer its dome! Having perpetrated a blot 
upon the city that cries to heaven in its enor- 
mity, the repentant owner adds a pagoda or two, 
much in the same spirit, doubtless, as prompts 
an Italian peasant to hang a votive heart on 

[45 ] 



THE WjtYS OF mEIJ^ 

some friendly shrine when a crime lies heavy on 
his conscience. 

What would be thought of a book-colledtor 
who took to standing inkstands or pepperboxes 
on the tops of his tallest volumes by way of 
adornment? Yet domes on business buildings 
are every bit as appropriate. A choice colledtion 
of those monstrosities graces Park Row, one 
much-gilded offender varying the monotony by 
looking like a yellow stopper in a high-shoul- 
dered bottle! How modern architedis with the 
exquisite City Hall before them could have wan- 
dered so far afield in their search for the original 
must always remain a mystery. 

When a tall, thin building happens to stand 
on a corner, the likeness to an atlas is replaced 
by a grotesque resemblance to a waffle iron, of 
which one structure just finished on Red;or Street 
skilfully reproduces the lines. The rows of little 
windows were evidently arranged to imitate the 
indentations on that humble utensil, and the ele- 
vated road at the back seems in this case to do 
duty as the handle. Mrs. Van Rensselaer tells 
us in her delightful Goede Vrouw of Mana-ha-ta 
that waffle irons used to be a favorite wedding 
present among the Dutch settlers of this island, 
and were adorned with monograms and other 
devices, so perhaps it is atavism that makes us 
so fond of this form in building! As, however, 
no careful Hausfrau would have stood her iron 
on its edge, architects should hesitate before 

[46] 



31 ODER J^ ^RCH ITECTU^E 

placing their buildings in that position, as the 
impression of instability is the same in each case. 

After leaving the vicinity of the City Hall, the 
tall slabs that like magnified milestones mark the 
progress of Architefture up Broadway become a 
shade less objedionable, although one meets 
some strange freaks in so-called decoration by 
the way. Why, for instance, were those Titan col- 
umns grouped around the entrance to the Amer- 
ican Surety Company's building? They do not 
support anything (the "business" of columns in 
architedlure) except some rather feeble statuary, 
and do seriously block the entrance. Were they 
added with the idea of fitness? That can hardly 
be, for a portico is as inappropriate to such a build- 
ing as it would be to a parlor car, and almost as 
inconvenient. 

Farther up town our attention is arrested by 
another misplaced adornment. What purpose can 
that tomb with a railing round it serve on top of 
the New York Life Insurance building? It looks 
like a monument in Greenwood, surmounted by 
a rat-trap, but no one is interred there, and ver- 
min can hardly be troublesome at that altitude. 

How did this craze for decoration originate? 
The inhabitants of Florence and Athens did not 
consider it necessary. There must, I feel sure, be 
a reason for its use in this city; American land- 
lords rarely spend money without a purpose; per- 
haps they find that rococo detail draws business 
and inspires confidence! 

[47] 



THE w^rs OF mED<^ 

I should like to ask the architedts of New 
York one question: Have they not been taught 
that in their art, as in every other, pretences are 
vulgar, that things should be what they seem? 
Then why do they continue to hide steel and fire- 
brick cages under a veneer of granite six inches 
thick, causing them to pose as solid stone build- 
ings? If there is a demand for tall, light struc- 
tures, why not build them simply (as bridges are 
construded), and not add a poultice of bogus col- 
umns and zinc cornices that serve no purpose 
and deceive no one ? 

Union Square possesses blocks out of which 
the Jackson and Decker buildings spring with 
a noble disregard of all rules and a delicious in- 
congruity that reminds one of FalstafFs corps of 
ill-drilled soldiers. Madison Square, however, is 
facile princeps^ with its annex to the Hoffman 
House, a building which would make the for- 
tune of any dime museum that could fence it in 
and show it for a fee! Long contemplation of 
this structure from my study window has printed 
every comic detail on my brain. It starts off at 
the ground level to be an imitation of the Doge's 
Palace (a neat and appropriate idea in itself for a 
Broadway shop). At the second story, following 
the usual New York method, it reverts to a de- 
sign suggestive of a county jail (the Palace and 
the Prison), with here and there a balcony hung 
out, emblematical, doubtless, of the inmates' wash 
and bedding. At the ninth floor the repentant 

[48] 



m OD E RU^ ^ RCH ITECTU^E 

archited adds two more stories in memory of the 
Doge's residence. Have you ever seen an accor- 
dion (concertina, I believe, is the correal name) 
hanging in a shop window? The Twenty-fifth 
Street Doge's Palace reminds me of that humble 
instrument. The wooden part, where the keys 
and round holes are, stands on the sidewalk. Then 
come an indefinite number of pleats, and finally 
the other wooden end well up among the clouds. 
So striking is this resemblance that at times one 
exped:s to hear the long-drawn moans peculiar to 
the concertina issuing from those portals. Alas! 
even the most original designs have their draw- 
backs! After the proprietorof the Venetian accor- 
dion had got his instrument well drawn out and 
balanced on its end, he perceived that it dwarfed 
the adjacent buildings, so cast about in his mind 
for a scheme to add height and dignity to the rest 
of the block. One day the astonished neighbor- 
hood saw what appeared to be a "roomy subur- 
ban villa" of iron rising on the roof of^ the old 
Hoffman House. The result suggests a small man 
who, being obliged to walk with a giant, had put 
on a hat several times too large in order to equal- 
ize their heights ! 

How astonished Pericles and his circle of archi- 
tefts and sculptors would be could they stand on 
the corner of Broadway and Twenty-eighth Street 
and see the miniature Parthenon that graces the 
roof of a pile innocent of other Greek ornament.? 
They would also recognize their old friends, the 

[49] 



THE W^rS OF rMEJ^ 

ladies of the Erechtheum, doing duty on the Re- 
veillon Building across the way, pretending to 
hold up a cornice, which, being in proportion to 
the building, is several hundred times too big for 
them to carry. They can't be seen from the side- 
walk, — the street is too narrow for that, — but 
such trifles don't deter builders from decorating 
when the fit is on them. Perhaps this one got his 
caryatides at a bargain, and had to work them in 
somewhere; so it is not fair to be hard on him. 

I f ever we take to ballooning, all these elaborate 
tops may add materially to our pleasure. At the 
present moment the birds, and angels, it is to be 
hoped, appreciate the effort. I, perhaps, of all the 
inhabitants of the city, have seen those ladies face 
to face, when I have gone on a semi-monthly visit 
to my roof to look for leaks ! 

"It's all very well to carp and cavil," many 
readers will say, "but 'Idler' forgets that our 
modern architects have had to contend with dif- 
ficulties that the designers of other ages never 
faced, demands for space and light forcing the 
nineteenth-century builders to produce strudures 
which they know are neither graceful nor in pro- 
portion!" 

If my readers will give themselves the trouble 
to glance at several office buildings in the city, 
they will realize that the problem is not without 
a solution. In almost every case where the archi- 
tect has refrained from useless decoration and 
stuck to simple lines, the result, if not beautiful, 

[5°] 



31 OD E RD^ ^RCHITECrVI^E 

has at least been inoffensive. It is where inappro- 
priate elaboration is added that taste is offended. 
Such structures as the Singer building, corner 
of Liberty Street and Broadway, and the home 
of Life^ in Thirty-first Street, prove that beauty 
and grace of facade can be adapted to modern 
business wants. 

Feeling as many New Yorkers do about this 
defacing of what might have been the most beau- 
tiful of modern cities, it is galling to be called 
upon to admire where it is already an effort to 
tolerate. 

A sprightly gentleman, writing recently in a 
scientific weekly, goes into ecstasies of admira- 
tion over the advantages and beauty of a steel 
mastodon on Park Row, a building that has the 
proportions of a carpenter's plane stood on end, 
decorated here and there with balconies and a 
colonnade perched on brackets up toward its fif- 
teenth story. He complacently gives us its weight 
and height as compared with the pyramids, and 
numerous other details as to floor space and venti- 
lation, and hints in conclusion that only old fogies 
and dullards, unable to keep pace with the times, 
fail to appreciate the charm of such structures in 
a city. One of the "points" this writer makes is 
the quantity of light and air enjoyed by tenants, 
amusingly oblivious of the fad that at least three 
facades of each tall building will see the day only 
so long as the proprietors of adjacent land are 
too poor or too busy to construd: similar colossi ! 

[51 ] 



THE W^rS OF mED^ 

When all the buildings in a block are the same 
height, seven eighths of the rooms in each will 
be without light or ventilation. It's rather poor 
taste to brag of advantages that are enjoyed only 
through the generosity of one's neighbors. 

Business demands may force us to bow be- 
fore the necessity of these horrors, but it certainly 
is "rubbing it in" to ask our applause. When 
the Eiffel Tower was in course of constru6tion, 
the artists and literary lights of Paris raised a 
tempest of protest. One wonders why so little of 
the kind has been done here. It is perhaps rather 
late in the day to suggest reform, yet if more 
New Yorkers would interest themselves in the 
work, much might still be done to modify and 
improve our metropolis. 

One hears with satisfadlion that a group of 
architedts have lately met and discussed plans for 
the embellishment of our neglected city. There 
is a certain poetical justice in the proposition 
coming from those who have worked so much 
of the harm. Remorse has before now been 
known to produce good results. The United 
States treasury yearly receives large sums of 
"conscience money." 



[52] 



Worldly Color-Blindness 

MYRIADS of people have no ear for 
music and derive but little pleasure 
from sweet sounds. Strange as it may 
appear, many gifted and sensitive mortals have 
been unable to distinguish one note from another, 
Apollo's harmonious art remaining for them, as 
for the elder Dumas, only an "expensive noise." 
Another large class find it impossible to dis- 
criminate between colors. Men afflided in this 
way have even become painters of reputation. I 
knew one of the latter, who, when a friend com- 
plimented him on having caught the exad shade 
of a pink toilet in one of his portraits, answered, 
"Does that dress look pink to you? I thought 
it was green!" and yet he had copied what he 
saw corredly. 

Both these classes are to be pitied, but are not 
the cause of much suffering to others. It is an- 
noying, I grant you, to be torn asunder in a colli- 
sion, because red and green lights on the switches 
combined into a pleasing harmony before the 
brakeman's eyes. The tone-deaf gentleman who 
insists on whistling a popular melody is almost 
as trying as the lady suffering from the same 
weakness, who shouts, "Ninon, Ninon, que fais- 
tu de la vie ! " until you feel impelled to cry," Que 
faites-vous, madame, with the key?" 

[53] 



THE WJtrS OF mEV^ 

Examinations now keep daltonic gentlemen 
out of locomotives, and ladies who have lost their 
"keys "are apt to find their friends' pianos closed. 
What we cannot guard against is a variety of 
the genus homo which suffers from "social color- 
blindness." These well-meaning mortals form one 
of the hardest trials that society is heir to; for 
the disease is incurable, and as it is almost im- 
possible to escape from them, they continue to 
spread dismay and confusion along their path to 
the bitter end. 

This malady, which, as far as I know, has not 
been diagnosed, invades all circles, and is, curi- 
ously enough, rampant among well-born and ap- 
parently well-bred people. 

Why is it that the entertainments at certain 
houses are always dull failures, while across the 
way one enjoys such agreeable evenings ? Both 
hosts are gentlemen, enjoying about the same 
amount of "unearned increment," yet the at- 
mosphere of their houses is radically different. 
This contrast cannot be traced to the dulness or 
brilliancy of the entertainer and his wife. Neither 
can it be laid at the door of inexperience, for the 
worst offenders are often old hands at the game. 

The only explanation possible is that the own- 
ers of houses where one is bored are socially color- 
blind, as cheerfully unconscious of their weakness 
as the keyless lady and the whistling abomina- 
tion. 

Since increasing wealth has made entertaining 

[54] 



WO'E^LTHY COLO%j-'BLINT>NESS 

general and lavish, this malady has become more 
and more apparent, until one is tempted to 
parody Mme. Roland's dying exclamation and 
cry, "Hospitality! hospitality! what crimes are 
committed in thy name!" 

Entertaining is for many people but an excuse 
for ostentation. For others it is a means to an end; 
while a third variety apparently keep a debit and 
credit account with their acquaintances — in books 
of double entry, so that no errors may occur — 
and issue invitations like receipts, only in return 
for value received. 

We can rarely tell what is passing in the minds 
of people about us. Some of those mentioned 
above may feel a vague pleasure when their rooms 
are filled with a chattering crowd of more or less 
well-assorted guests; if that is denied them, can 
find consolation for the outlay in an indefinite 
sensation of having performed a duty, — what 
duty, or to whom, they would, however, find it 
difficult to define. 

Let the novice flee from the allurements of 
such a host. Old hands know him and have got 
him on their list, escaping when escape is pos- 
sible; for he will mate the green youth with 
the red frump, or like a premature millennium 
force the lion and the lamb to lie down together, 
and imagine he has given unmixed pleasure to 
both. 

One would exped: that great worldly lights 
might learn by experience how fatal bungled enter- 

[5S] 



THE W^rS OF mE3^ 

tainments can be, but such is not the case. Many 
well-intentioned people continue sacrificing their 
friends on the altar of hospitality year after year 
with never a qualm of conscience or a sensation 
of pity for their vidiims. One practical lady of my 
acquaintance asks her guests alphabetically, com- 
mencing the season and the first leaf of her visit- 
ing list simultaneously and working steadily on 
through both to "finis." If you are an A, you 
will meet only A's at her table, with perhaps one 
or two B's thrown in to fill up; you may sit next 
to your mother-in-law for all the hostess cares. 
She has probably never heard that the number 
of guests at table should not exceed that of the 
muses ; or if by any chance she has heard it, does 
not care, and considers such a rule old-fashioned 
and not appropriate to our improved modern 
methods of entertaining. 

One wonders what possible satisfaction a host 
can derive from providing fifty people with un- 
wholesome food and drink at a fixed date. It is a 
physical impossibility for him to have more than 
a passing word with his guests, and ten to one the 
unaccustomed number has upset the internal ar- 
rangements of his household, so that the dinner 
will, in consequence, be poor and the service de- 
fective. 

A side-light on this question came to me re- 
cently when an exceedingly frank husband con- 
fided to a circle of his friends at the club the 
scheme his wife, who, though on pleasure bent, 

[56] 



WO\^LT>Lr COLO^-'BLIN'DNESS 

was of a frugal mind, had adopted to balance her 
social ledger. 

"As we dine out constantly through the year," 
remarked Benedid:, "some return is necessary. 
So we wait until the height of the winter season, 
when everybody is engaged two weeks in advance, 
then send out our invitations at rather short no- 
tice for two or three consecutive dinners. You 'd be 
surprised," he remarked, with a beaming smile, 
"what a number refuse; last winter we cancelled 
all our obligations with two dinners, the flowers 
and entrees being as fresh on the second evening 
as the first ! It 's wonderful ! " he remarked in con- 
clusion, "how simple entertaining becomes when 
one knows how!" Which reminded me of an in- 
genious youth I once heard telling some friends 
how easy he had found it to write the book he 
had just published. After his departure we agreed 
that if he found it so easy it would not be worth 
our while to read his volume. 

Tender-hearted people generally make bad 
hosts. They have a way of colleding the morally 
lame, halt, and blind into their drawing-rooms 
that gives those apartments the air of a conva- 
lescent home. The moment a couple have placed 
themselves beyond the social pale, these purblind 
hosts conceive an affedion for and lavish hos- 
pitality upon them. If such a host has been for- 
tunate enough to get together a circle of healthy 
people, you may feel confident that at the last 
moment a leper will be introduced. This class of 

[57] 



THE JV^rS OF 31 E 3^ 

entertainers fail to see that society cannot be run 
on a philanthropic basis, and so insist on turn- 
ing their salons into hospitals. 

It would take too long to enumerate the thou- 
sand idiosyncrasies of the color-blind ; few, how- 
ever, are more amusing than those of the impul- 
sive gentlemen who invite people to their homes 
indiscriminately, because they happen to feel in 
a good humor or chance to be seated next them 
at another house, — invitations which the host 
regrets half an hour later, and would willingly 
recall. "I can't think why I asked the So-and- 
sos ! " he will confide to you. " I can't abide them ; 
they are as dull as the dropsy!" Many years ago 
in Paris, we used to call a certain hospitable lady's 
invitations "soup tickets," so little individuality 
did they possess. 

The subtle laws of moral precedence are diffi- 
cult reading for the most intelligent, and therefore 
remain sealed books to the afflidied mortals men- 
tioned here. The delicate tad: that, with no ap- 
parent effort, combines congenial elements into 
a delightful whole is lacking in their composition. 
The nice discrimination that presides over some 
households is replaced by a jovial indifference to 
other persons' feelings and prejudices. 

The idea of placing pretty Miss Debutante 
next young Strongboys instead of giving her 
over into the clutches of old Mr. Boremore will 
never enter these obtuse entertainers' heads, any 
more than that of trying to keep poor, defence- 

[58] 



JVO%^LT>Lr COLO\^-'BLINT>NESS 

less Mrs. Mouse out of young Tom Cat's claws. 

It is useless to enumerate instances; people 
have suffered too severely at the hands of care- 
less and incompetent hosts not to know pretty 
well what the title of this paper means. So many 
of us have come away from fruitless evenings, 
grinding our teeth, and vowing never to enter 
those doors again while life lasts, that the time 
seems ripe for a protest. 

If the color-Wind would only refrain from 
painting, and the tone-deaf not insist on invit- 
ing one to their concerts, the world would be a 
much more agreeable place. If people would only 
learn what they can and what they can't do, and 
leave the latter feats alone, a vast amount of un- 
necessary annoyance would be avoided and the 
tiresome old grindstone turn to a more cheerful 
tune. 



[59] 



we ifw *x '5w *x *nf «* 

N"- 8 

Idling in Mid-ocean 

To those fortunate mortals from whom 
Poseidon exacts no tribute in crossing 
his broad domain, a transatlantic voyage 
must afford each year an ever new delight. The 
cares and worries of existence fade away and dis- 
appear in company with the land, in the deep 
bosom of the ocean buried. One no longer feels 
like the bored mortal who has all winter turned 
the millstone of work and pleasure, but seems to 
have transmigrated into a new body, endowed 
with a ravenous appetite and perfectly fresh sen- 
sations. 

Perhaps it is only the novelty of the surround- 
ings; but as I lie somnolent in my chair, tucked 
into a corner of thewhite deck, watching the jade- 
colored water rush past below, and the sea-gulls 
circle gRjlj overhe?idythQSummum bonum of ea-vthly 
contentment seems attained. The book chosen 
with care remains uncut; the sense of physical 
and mental rest is too exquisite to be broken by 
any effort, even the reading of a favorite author. 

Drowsy lapses into unconsciousness obscure 
the senses, like the transparent clouds that from 
time to time dim the sunlight. A distant bell 
in the wheel-house chimes the lazy half-hours. 
Groups of people come and go like figures on a 
lantern-slide. A curiously detached feeling makes 

[60] 



IT>LINq 10^ miT>-OC E^D<^ 

the scene and the adors in it as unreal as a painted 
ship manned by a shadowy crew. The inevitable 
child tumbles on its face and is picked up shriek- 
ing by tender parents; energetic youths organize 
games of skill or discover whales on the hori- 
zon, without disturbing one's philosophic calm. 

I congratulate myself on having chosen a for- 
eign line. For a week at least no familiar name 
will be spoken, no accustomed face appear. 
The galling harness of routine is loosened; one 
breathes freely again conscious of the unoccupied 
hours in perspective. 

The welcome summons to luncheon comes as 
a pleasant shock. Is it possible that the morning 
has passed? It seems to have but commenced. I 
rouse myself and descend to the cabin. Toward 
the end of the meal a rubicund Frenchman oppo- 
site makes the startling proposition that if I wish 
to send a message home he will undertake to 
have it delivered. It is not until I notice the little 
square of oiled paper he is holding out to me 
that I understand this reference to the "pigeon 
post" with which the Compagnie Transatlan- 
tique is experimenting. At the invitation of this 
new acquaintance I ascend to the upper deck 
and watch his birds depart. 

The tiny bits of paper on which we have writ- 
ten (post-card fashion) message and address are 
rolled two or three together, and inserted into a 
piece of quill less than two inches long, which, 
however, they do not entirely fill. While a pigeon 
[6i ] 



THE W^rS OF 3iE3^ 

is held by one man, another pushes one of the 
bird's tail-feathers well through the quill, which 
is then fastened in its place by two minute wooden 
wedges. A moment later the pigeon is tossed up 
into the air, and we witness the working of that 
mysterious instind; which all our modern science 
leaves unexplained. After a turn or two far up in 
the clear sky, the bird gets its bearings and darts off 
on its five-hundred-mile journey across unknown 
seas to an unseen land — a voyage that no devia- 
tion or loitering will lengthen, and only fatigue 
or accident interrupt, until he alights at his cote. 

Five of these willing messengers were started 
the first day out, and five more will leave to- 
morrow, poor little aerial postmen, almost pre- 
destined to destruftion (in the latter case), for 
we shall then be so far from land that their one 
chance of life and home must depend on finding 
some friendly mast where an hour's rest may be 
taken before the bird starts again on his journey. 

In two or three days, according to the weather, 
we shall begin sending French pigeons on ahead 
of us toward Havre. The gentleman in charge 
of them tells me that his wife received all the 
messages he sent to her during his westward trip, 
the birds appearing each morning at her window 
(where she was in the habit of feeding them) with 
their tidings from mid-ocean. H e also tells me that 
the French fleet in the Mediterranean recently re- 
ceived messages from their comrades in the Baltic 
on the third day by these feathered envoys. 
[6a] 



It is hoped that in future ocean steamers will 
be able to keep up communication with the land 
at least four out of the seven days of their trips, 
so that, in case of delay or accident, their exad: 
position and circumstances can be made known 
at headquarters. It is a pity, the originator of the 
scheme remarked, that sea-gulls are such hope- 
less vagabonds, for they can fly much greater 
distances than pigeons, and are not affefted by 
dampness, which seriously cripples the present 
messengers. 

Later in the day a compatriot, inspired doubt- 
less by the morning's experiment, confided to me 
that he had hit on "a great scheme," which he 
intends to develop on arriving. His idea is to 
domesticate families of porpoises at Havre and 
New York, as that fish passes for having (like 
the pigeon) the homing instinft. Ships provided 
with the parent fish can free one every twenty- 
four hours, charged with the morning's mail. The 
inventor of this luminous idea has already de- 
signed the letter-boxes that are to be strapped on 
the fishes' backs, and decided on a neat uniform 
for his postmen. 

It is amusing during the first days "out" to 
watch the people whom chance has thrown to- 
gether into such close quarters. The occult power 
that impels a pigeon to seek its kind is feeble in 
comparison with the faculty that travellers de- 
velop under these circumstances for seeking out 
congenial spirits. Twelve hours do not pass be- 

[63 ] 



THE TV^rS OF 34ECK^ 

fore affinities draw together; what was apparently 
a homogeneous mass has by that time grouped 
and arranged itself into three or four distind: 
circles. 

The "sporty" gentlemen in loud clothes have 
united in the bonds of friendship with the trav- 
elling agents and have chosen the smoking-room 
as their headquarters. No mellow sunset or serene 
moonlight will tempt these comrades from the 
subtleties of poker; the pool on the run is the 
event of their day. 

A portly prima donna is the centre of another 
circle. Her wraps, her dogs, her admirers, and 
her brand-new husband (a handsome young Hun- 
garian with a voice like two Bacian bulls) fill the 
sitting-room, where the piano gets but little rest. 
Neither sunshine nor soft winds can draw them 
to the deck. Although too ill for the regular 
meals, this group eat and drink during fifteen out 
of the twenty-four hours. 

The deck, however, is not deserted; two fash- 
ionable dressmakers revel there. These sociable 
ladies asked the commissaire at the start "to in- 
troduce all the young unmarried men to them," 
as they wanted to be jolly. They have a numer- 
ous court around them, and champagne, like the 
conversation, flows freely. These ladies have al- 
ready become expert at shufBeboard, but their 
" sea legs " are not so good as might be expelled, 
and the dames require to be caught and sup- 
ported by their admirers at each moment to pre- 

[64] 



IT>LINq 10^ miT>-OCE^d<^ 

vent them from tripping — an immense joke, to 
judge by the peals of laughter that follow. 

The American wife of a French ambassador 
sits on the captain's right. A turn of the diplo- 
matic wheel is taking the lady to Madrid, where 
her position will call for supreme tad: and self-re- 
straint. One feels a thrill of national pride on look- 
ing at her high-bred young face and listening as 
she chats in French and Spanish, and wonders 
once more at the marvellous faculty our women 
have of adapting themselves so graciously and so 
naturally to difficult positions, which the women 
of other nations rarely fill well unless born to the 
purple. It is the high opinion I have of my coun- 
trywomen that has made me cavil, before now, 
on seeing them turned into elaborately dressed 
nullities by foolish and too adoring husbands. 

The voyage is wearing itself away. Sunny days 
are succeeded by gray mornings, as exquisite in 
their way, when one can feel the ship fight against 
contending wind and wave, and shiver under the 
blows received in a struggle which dashes the salt 
spray high over the decks. There is an aroma in 
the air then that breathes new life into jaded 
nerves, and stirs the drop of old Norse blood, 
dormant in most American veins, into quivering 
ecstasy. One dreams of throwing off the trammels 
of civilized existence and returning to the free life 
of older days. 

But here is Havre glittering in the distance 
against her background of chalk cliffs. People 

[65] 



THE W^rS OF 3IE0^ 

come on deck in strangely conventional clothes 
and with demure citified airs. Passengers of whose 
existence you were unaware suddenly make their 
appearance. Two friends meet near me for the 
first time. "Hallo, Jones!" says one of them, 
"are you crossing?" 

"Yes," answers Jones, "are you?" 
The company's tug has come alongside by 
this time, bringing its budget of letters and tele- 
grams. The brief holiday is over. With a sigh one 
comes back to the positive and the present, and 
patiently resumes the harness of life. 



[66] 



N"- 9 

"Climbers" in England 

THE expression "Little Englander," 
much used of late to designate an in- 
habitant of the Mother Isle in contra- 
distindlion to other subjedts of Her Majesty, ex- 
presses neatly the feeling of our insular cousins not 
only as regards ourselves, but also the position af- 
fected toward their colonial brothers and sisters. 

Have you ever noticed that in every circle 
there is some individual assuming to do things 
better than his comrades — to know more, dress 
better, run faster, pronounce more corredly? 
Who, unless promptly suppressed, will turn the 
conversation into a monologue relating to his own 
exploits and opinions. To differ is to bring down 
his contempt upon your devoted head ! To argue 
is time wasted ! 

Human nature is, however, so constituted that 
a man of this type mostly succeeds in hypnotiz- 
ing his hearers into sharing his estimate of him- 
self, and impressing upon them the convidion 
that he is a rare being instead of a commonplace 
mortal. He is not a bad sort of person at bottom, 
and ready to do one a friendly turn — if it does 
not entail too great inconvenience. In short, a 
good fellow, whose principal defeat is the pro- 
found convidion that he was born superior to 
the rest of mankind. 

[67] 



THE IV^rS OF 31 E 3^ 

What this individual is to his environment, 
Englishmen are to the world at large. It is the 
misfortune, not the fault, of the rest of the hu- 
man race, that they are not native to his island ; 
a fad:, by the way, which outsiders are rarely al- 
lowed to lose sight of, as it entails a becoming 
modesty on their part. 

Few idiosyncrasies get more quickly on Amer- 
ican nerves or are further from our hearty atti- 
tude toward strangers. As we are far from look- 
ing upon wandering Englishmen with suspicion, 
it takes us some time to realize that Americans 
who cut away from their countrymen and settle 
far from home are regarded with distrust and re- 
luctantly received. When a family of this kind 
prepares to live in their neighborhood, Britons 
have a formula of three questions they ask them- 
selves concerning the new-comers: "Whom do 
they know? How much are they worth?" and 
" What amusement (or profit) are we likely to 
get out of them ? " If the answer to all or any of 
the three queries is satisfactory, my lord makes 
the necessary advances and becomes an agreeable, 
if not a witty or original, companion. 

Given this and a number of other peculiarities, 
it seems curious that a certain class of Americans 
should be so anxious to live in England. What 
is it tempts them? It cannot be the climate, for 
that is vile; nor the city of London, for it is one 
of the ugliest in existence; nor their "cuisine" — 
for although we are not good cooks ourselves, we 
[68] 



''CLIM'BERS'' lO^ENQL^NT) 

know what good food is and could give Britons 
points. Neither can it be art, nor the opera, — one 
finds both better at home or on the Continent 
than in England. So it must be society, and here 
one's wonder deepens ! 

When I hear friends just back from a stay 
over there enlarging on the charms of " country 
life," or a London "season," I look attentively 
to see if they are in earnest, so incomparably dull 
have I always found English house parties or 
town entertainments. At least that side of society 
which the climbing stranger mostly affedts. Other 
circles are charming, if a bit slow, and the " Bo- 
hemia" and semi-Bohemia of London have a 
delicate flavor of their own. 

County society, that ideal life so attractive to 
American readers of British novels, is, taken on 
the whole, the most insipid existence conceivable. 
The women lack the sparkle and charm of ours; 
the men, who are out all day shooting or hunt- 
ing, according to the season, get back so fagged 
that if they do not a6hially drop asleep at the din- 
ner-table, they will nap immediately after, bright- 
ening only when the ladies have retired, when, 
with evening dress changed for comfortable smok- 
ing suits, the hunters congregate in the billiard- 
room for cigars and brandy and seltzer. 

A particularly agreeable American woman, 
whose husband insists on going every winter to 
Melton- Mowbray for the hunting, was describ- 
ing the other day the life there among the wo- 

[69] 



THE fF^rS OF MED^ 

men, and expressing her wonder that those who 
did not hunt could refrain from blowing out their 
brains, so awful was the dulness and monotony ! 
She had ended by not dining out at all, having 
discovered that the conversation never by any 
chance deviated far from the knees of the horses 
and the height of the hedges ! 

Which reminds one of Thackeray relating how 
he had longed to know what women talked about 
when they were alone after dinner, imagining it to 
be on mysterious and thrilling subje6ts, until one 
evening he overheard such a conversation and 
found it turned entirely on children and ailments! 
As regards wit, the English are like the Oriental 
potentate who at a ball in Europe expressed his 
astonishment that the guests took the trouble to 
dance and get themselves hot and dishevelled, 
explaining that in the East he paid people to do 
that for him. In England "amusers" are invited 
expressly to be funny; anything uttered by one 
of these delightful individuals is sure to be re- 
ceived with much laughter. It is so simple that 
way ! One is prepared and knows when to laugh. 
Whereas amateur wit is confusing. When an 
American I knew, turning over the books on a 
drawing-room table and finding Hare's IValks in 
London J in two volumes, said, " So you part your 
hair in the middle over here," the remark was 
received in silence, and with looks of polite sur- 
prise. 

It is not necessary, however, to accumulate 

[70] 



''CLIM'BERS" IO^ENgL^NT> 

proofs that this much described society is less in- 
telligent than our own. Their authors have ac- 
knowledged it, and well they may. For from 
Scott and Dickens down to Hall Caine, Ameri- 
can appreciation has gone far toward establishing 
the reputation of English writers at home. 

In spite of lack of humor and a thousand other 
defed:s which ought to make English swelldom 
antagonistic to our countrymen, the fad: remains 
that "smart" London tempts a certain number 
of Americans and has become a promised land, 
toward which they turn longing eyes. You will 
always find a few of these votaries over there in 
the "season," struggling bravely up the social 
current, making acquaintances, spending money 
at charity sales, giving dinners and fetes, taking 
houses at Ascot and filling them with their new 
friends' friends. With more or less success as the 
new-comers have been able to return satisfadory 
answers to the three primary questions. 

What Americans are these, who force us to 
blush for them infinitely more than for the unlet- 
tered tourists trotting conscientiously around the 
country, doing the sights and asking for soda- 
water and buckwheat cakes at the hotels ! 

Any one who has been an observer of the genus 
"Climber" at home, and wondered at their way 
and courage, will recognize these ambitious souls 
abroad; five minutes' conversation is enough. It 
is never about a place that they talk, but of the 
people they know. London to them is not the 

[7" ] 



THE w^rs OF mED^ 

city of Dickens. It is a place where one may meet 
the Prince of Wales and perhaps obtain an en- 
trance into his set. 

One description will cover most climbers. 
They are, as a rule, people who start humbly in 
some small city, then when fortune comes, push 
on to New York and Newport, where they carry 
all before them and make their houses centres 
and themselves powers. Next comes the discov- 
ery that the circle into which they have forced 
their way is not nearly as attractive as it appeared 
from a distance. Consequently that vague disap- 
pointment is felt which most of us experience 
on attaining a long desired goal — the unsatis- 
fadioriness of success ! Much the same sensation 
as caused poor Du Maurier to answer, when asked 
shortly before his death why he looked so glum, 
" I 'm soured by success ! " 

So true is this of all human nature that the 
following recipe might be given for the attain- 
ment of perfed: happiness : " Begin far down in 
any walk of life. Rise by your efforts higher each 
year, and then be careful to die before discover- 
ing that there is nothing at the top. The excite- 
ment of the struggle — ' the rapture of the chase' 
— are greater joys than achievement." 

Our ambitious friends naturally ignore this 
bit of philosophy. When it is discovered that the 
"world" at home has given but an unsatisfactory 
return for cash and conniving, it occurs to them 
that the fault lies in the circle, and they assume 

[72] 



''CLIM'BERS" /^ EN gL^NT> 

that their particular talents require a larger field. 
Having conquered all in sight, these social Alex- 
anders pine for a new world, which generally 
turns out to be the " Old," so a crossing is made, 
and the "Conquest of England" begun with all 
the enthusiasm and push employed on starting 
out from the little native city twenty years be- 
fore. 

It is in Vidloria's realm that foemen worthy of 
their steel await the conquerors. Home society 
was a too easy prey, opening its doors and laying 
down its arms at the first summons. In England 
the new-comers find that their little game has been 
played before ; and, well, what they imagined was 
a discovery proves to be a long-studied science 
with '"'■ donnantl donnantl " as its fundamental law. 
Wily opponents with trump cards in their hands 
and a profound knowledge of "Hoyle" smil- 
ingly offer them seats. Having acquired in a 
home game a knowledge of "bluff," our friends 
plunge with delight into the fray, only to find 
English society so formed that, climb they never 
so wisely, the top can never be reached. Work as 
hard as they may, succeed even beyond their fond- 
est hopes, there will always remain circles above, 
toward which to yearn — people who will refuse 
to know them, houses they will never be invited 
to enter. Think of the charm, the attraction such 
a civilization must have for the real born climber, 
and you, my reader, will understand why certain 
of our compatriots enjoy living in England, and 

[73 ] 



THE fV^rS OF 31ED^ 

why when once the intoxicating draught (supphed 
to the ambitious on the other side) has been tasted, 
all home concodions prove insipid. 



[74] 



S'' ^ sT ?K ^ T^ ^ ^ ^ "^ "^ ^ ^ ^ ^xT ^ N'' N'^ N^ N^ IvT ^ ^y* N** N'' S'' %** N^ 3^ 

V^ V v^ v' V V Y Y V*^ V V ▼ y' V V^ V V^ V ^ v^ v^ v v" V^ ^ V ^ V ^r 

AT"- 10 

Calve at Cabrieres 



WH I LE I was making a " cure " last year 
at Lamalou,an obscure Spa in the Ce- 
vennes Mountains, Madame Calve, to 
whom I had expressed a desire to see her pic- 
turesque home, telegraphed an invitation to pass 
the day with her, naming the train she could 
meet, which would allow for the long drive to 
her chateau before luncheon. It is needless to 
say the invitation was accepted. As my train drew 
up at the little station, Madame Calve, in her trap, 
was the first person I saw, and no time was lost 
in getting en route. 

During the hour passed on the poplar-bor- 
dered road that leads straight and white across the 
country I had time to appreciate the transforma- 
tion in the woman at my side. Was this gray-clad, 
nunlike figure the passionate, sensuous Carmen 
of Bizet's masterpiece ? Could that calm, pale face, 
crossed by innumerable lines of suffering, as a 
spider's web lies on a flower, blaze and pant with 
Sappho's guilty love? 

Something of these thoughts must have ap- 
peared on my face, for turning with a smile, she 
asked, "You find me changed? It's the air of 
my village. Here I 'm myself. Everywhere else 
I 'm different. On the stage I am any part I may 
be playing, but am never really happy away from 

[7J] 



THE IF^rS OF mEO^ 

my hill there." As she spoke, a sun-baked ham- 
let came in sight, huddled around the base of two 
tall towers that rose cool and gray in the noon- 
day heat. 

"All that wing," she added, "is arranged for 
the convalescent girls whom I have sent down 
to me from the Paris hospitals for a cure of fresh 
air and simple food. Six years ago, just after I 
had bought this place, a series of operations 
became necessary which left me prostrated and 
anaemic. No tonics were of benefit. I grew weaker 
day by day, until the dodors began to despair of 
my life. Finally, at the advice of an old woman 
here who passes for being something of a curer, 
I tried the experiment of lying five or six hours 
a day motionless in the sunlight. It was n't long 
before I felt life creeping back to my poor feeble 
body. The hot sun of our magic south was a more 
subtle tonic than any drug. When the cure was 
complete, I made up my mind that each summer 
the same chance should be offered to as many of 
my suffering sisters as this old place could be 
made to accommodate." 

The bells on the shaggy Tarbes ponies she 
was driving along the Languedoc road drew, on 
nearing her residence, a number of peasant chil- 
dren from their play. 

As the ruddy urchins ran shouting around our 
carriage wheels and scrambled in the dust for the 
sous we threw them, my hostess pointed laugh- 
ing to a scrubby little girl with tomato-colored 

[76] 



C^LVE ^r C^'BRI ERES 

cheeks and tousled dark hair, remarking, "I 
looked like that twenty years ago and performed 
just those antics on this very road. No punish- 
ment would keep me off the highway. Those 
pennies, if I 'm not mistaken, will all be spent at 
the village pastry cook's within an hour." 

This was said with such a tender glance at 
the children that one realized the great artist 
was at home here, surrounded by the people she 
loved and understood. True to the "homing" 
instind: of the French peasant, Madame Calve, 
when fortune came to her, bought and partially 
restored the rambling chateau which at sunset 
casts its shadow across the village of her birth. 
Since that day every moment of freedom from 
professional labor and every penny of her large 
income are spent at Cabrieres, building, plan- 
ning, even farming, when her health permits. 

"I think," she continued, as we approached 
the chateau, "that the happiest day of my life 
— and I have, as you know, passed some hours 
worth living, both on and off the stage — was 
when, that wing completed, a Paris train brought 
the first occupants formy twenty little bedrooms; 
no words can tell the delight it gives me now to 
see the color coming back to my patients' pale 
lips and hear them laughing and singing about 
the place. As I am always short of funds, the 
idea of abandoning this work is the only fear the 
future holds for me." 

With the vivacity pieculiar to her character, my 

[77] 



THE TV^rS OF 3^EJ^ 

companion then whipped up her cobs and turned 
the conversation into gayer channels. Five min- 
utes later we clattered over a drawbridge and 
drew up in a roomy courtyard, half blinding sun- 
light and half blue shadow, where a score of girls 
were occupied with books and sewing. 

The luncheon bell was ringing as we ascended 
the terrace steps. After a hurried five minutes 
for brushing and washing, we took our places at 
a long table set in the cool stone hall, guests 
stopping in the chateau occupying one end 
around the chatelaine, the convalescents filling 
the other seats. 

Those who have only seen the capricious diva 
on the stage or in Parisian salons can form little 
idea of the proprietress of Cabrieres. No shade 
of coquetry blurs the clear pidure of her home 
life. The capped and saboted peasant women who 
waited on us were not more simple in their ways. 
Several times during the meal she left her seat to 
inquire after the comfort of some invalid girl or in- 
sped the cooking in the adjacent kitchen. These 
wanderings were not, however, allowed to disturb 
the conversation, which flowed on after the mellow 
French fashion, enlivened by much wit and gay 
badinage. One of our hostess's anecdotes at her 
own expense was especially amusing. 

"When in Venice," she told us, "most prima 
donnas are carried to and from the opera in sedan 
chairs to avoid the risk of colds from the draughty 
gondolas. The last night of my initial season there, 

[78] 



C^LVE ^r C^'BRlkRES 

I was informed, as the curtain fell, that a number 
of Venetian nobles were planning to carry me in 
triumph to the hotel. When I descended from 
my dressing-room the courtyard of the theatre was 
filled with men in dress clothes, bearing lanterns, 
who caught up the chair as soon as I was seated 
and carried it noisily across the city to the hotel. 
Much moved by this unusual honor, I mounted 
to the balcony of my room, from which elevation 
I bowed my thanks, and threw all the flowers at 
hand to my escort. 

" Next morning the hotel proprietor appeared 
with my coffee, and after hesitating a moment, 
remarked: 'Well, we made a success of it last 
night. It has been telegraphed to all the capitals 
of Europe ! I hope you will not think a thousand 
francs too much, considering the advertisement ! ' 
In blank amazement, I asked what he meant. * I 
mean the triumphal progress,* he answered. 'I 
thought you understood! We always organize 
one for the " stars" who visit Venice. The men who 
carried your chair last night were the waiters 
from the hotels. We hire them on account of their 
dress clothes' ! Think of the disillusion," added 
Calve, laughing, "and my disgust, when I thought 
of myself naively thro»ving kisses and flowers to 
a group of Swiss gar^ons at fifteen francs a head. 
There was nothing to do, however, but pay the 
bill and swallow my chagrin ! " 

How many pretty women do you suppose 
would tell such a joke upon themselves ? Another 

[79] 



THE W^rS OF 31 EO^ 

story she told us is charadleristic of her peasant 
neighbors. 

" When I came back here after my first season 
in St. Petersburg and London the cure requested 
me to sing at our local fete. I gladly consented, 
and, standing by his side on the steps of the Mai- 
ne, gave the great aria from the Huguenots in my 
best manner. To my astonishment the perfor- 
mance was received in complete silence. * Poor 
Calve,' I heard an old friend of my mother's mur- 
mur. ' Her voice used to be so nice, and now it's 
all gone ! ' Taking in the situation at a glance, I 
threw my voice well up into my nose and started 
off on a well-known provincial song, in the shrill 
falsetto of our peasant women. The effed was 
instantaneous ! Long before the end the per- 
formance was drowned in thunders of applause. 
Which proves that to be popular a singer must 
adapt herself to her audience." 

Luncheon over, we repaired for cigarettes and 
coffee to an upper room, where Calve was giving 
Dagnan-Bouveret some sittings for a portrait, 
and lingered there until four o'clock, when our 
hostess left us for her siesta, and a "break" took 
those who cared for the excursion across the valley 
to insped: the ruins of a Roman bath. A late din- 
ner brought us together again in a small dining- 
room, the convalescents having eaten their simple 
meal and disappeared an hour before. During 
this time, another transformation had taken place 
in our mercurial hostess! It was the Calve of 

[80] 



C^LVE ^T C^'BRIERES 

Paris, Calve the witch, Calve the capiteusCy who 
presided at the dainty, flower-decked table and 
led the laughing conversation. 

A few notes struck on a guitar by one of the 
party, as we sat an hour later on the moonlit ter- 
race, were enough to start off the versatile artist, 
who was in her gayest humor. She sang us stray 
bits of opera, alternatingher music with scenes bur- 
lesqued from recent plays. No one escaped her 
inimitable mimicry, not even the " divine Sarah, " 
Calve giving us an unpayable impersonation of the 
elderly tragedienne as Lorenzaccio, the boy hero 
of Alfred de Musset's drama. Burlesquing led to 
her dancing some Spanish steps with an abandon 
never attempted on the stage! Which in turn gave 
place to an imitation of an American whistling an 
air from Carmen^ and some "coon songs" she had 
picked up during her stay at New York. They, 
again, were succeeded by a superb rendering of 
the imprecation from Racine's Camille^ which 
made her audience realize that in gaining a so- 
prano the world has lost, perhaps, its greatest 
tragedienne. 

At eleven o'clock the clatter of hoofs in the 
court warned us that the pleasant evening had 
come to an end. A journalist en route for Paris 
was soon installed with me in the little omnibus 
that was to take us to the station, Calve herself 
lighting our cigars and providing the wraps that 
were to keep out the cool night air. 

As we passed under the low archway of the en- 

[8l ] 



THE fF^rS OF MEO^ 

trance amidaclamor of "adieu" and "aurevoir," 
the young Frenchman at my side pointed up to 
a row of closed windows overhead. "Isn't it a 
lesson," he said, "for all of us, to think of the 
occupants of those little rooms, whom the gen- 
erosity and care of that gracious artist are leading 
by such pleasant paths back to health and courage 
for their toilsome lives?" 



[82] 



N'- II 

A Cry for Fresh Air 

ONCE upon a time," reads the familiar 
nursery tale, while the fairies, invited 
by a king and queen to the christen- 
ing of their daughter, were showering good gifts 
on the baby princess, a disgruntled old witch, 
whom no one had thought of asking to the cere- 
mony, appeared uninvited on the scene and re- 
venged herself by decreeing that the presents of 
the good fairies, instead of proving beneficial, 
should bring only trouble and embarrassment to 
the royal infant. 

A telling analogy might be drawn between that 
unhappy princess over whose fate so many youth- 
ful tears have been shed, and the condition of 
our invention-ridden country; for we see every 
day how the good gifts of those nineteenth cen- 
tury fairies. Science and Industry , instead of prov- 
ing blessings to mankind, are being turned by 
ignorance and stupidity into veritable afflidions. 
If a prophetic gentleman had told Louis Four- 
teenth's shivering courtiers — whom an iron eti- 
quette forced on winter mornings into the (ap- 
propriately named) Galerie des Glaces, stamping 
their silk-clad feet and blowing on their blue fin- 
gers, until the king should appear — that within 
a century and a half one simple discovery would 
enable all classes of people to keep their shops 

[83 ] 



THE W^rS OF ^E3^ 

and dwellings at a summer temperature through 
the severest winters, the half-frozen nobles would 
have flouted the suggestion as an "iridescent 
dream," a sort of too-good-to-be-true prophecy. 

What was to those noblemen an unheard-of 
luxury has become within the last decade one of 
the primary necessities of our life. 

The question arises now: Are we gainers by 
the change? Has the indiscriminate use of heat 
been of advantage, either mentally or physically, 
to the nation? 

The incubus of caloric that sits on our gasping 
country is particularly painful at this season, when 
nature undertakes to do her own heating. 

In other less-favored lands, the first spring 
days, the exquisite awakening of the world after 
a long winter, bring to the inhabitants a sensa- 
tion of joy and renewed vitality. We, however, 
have discounted that enjoyment. Delicate grada- 
tions of temperature are lost on people who have 
been stewing for six months in a mixture of steam 
and twice-breathed air. 

What pleasure can an early April day afford the 
man who has slept in an over-heated flat and is 
hurrying to an office where eighty degrees is the 
average all the year round? Or the pale shop-girl, 
who complains if a breath of morning air strays 
into the suburban train where she is seated? 

As people who habitually use such "relishes" 
as Chutney and Worcestershire are incapable 
of appreciating delicately prepared food, so the 

[84] 



^ CRT FOR^ FRESH ^ I R^ 

"soft" mortals who have accustomed themselves 
to a perpetual August are insensible to fine shad- 
ings of temperature. 

The other day I went with a friend to insped 
some rooms he had been decorating in one of our 
public schools. The morning had been frosty, but 
by eleven o'clock the sun warmed the air uncom- 
fortably. On entering the school we were met by 
a blast of heated air that was positively stagger- 
ing. In the recitation rooms, where, as in all New 
York schoolrooms, the children were packed like 
dominoes in a box, the temperature could not 
have been under eighty-five. 

The pale, spedacled spinster in charge, to 
whom we complained of this, was astonished and 
offended at what she considered our interference, 
and answered that "the children liked it warm," 
as for herself she "had a cold and could not think 
of opening a window." If the rooms were too 
warm it was the janitor's fault, and he had gone 
out! 

Twelve o'clock struck before we had finished 
our tour of inspedion. It is to be doubted if any- 
where else in the world could there be found such 
a procession of pasty-faced, dull-eyed youngsters 
as trooped past us down the stairs. Their appear- 
ance was the natural result of compelling chil- 
dren dressed for winter weather to sit many hours 
each day in hothouses, more suited to tropical 
plants than to growing human beings. 

A gentleman with us remarked with a sigh, 

[85] 



THE w^rs OF mEU^ 

"I have been in almost every school in the city 
and find the same condition everywhere. It is 
terrible, but there does n't seem to be any rem- 
edy for it." The taste for living in a red-hot at- 
mosphere is growing on our people; even public 
vehicles have to be heated now to please the 
patrons. 

When tiresome old Benjamin Franklin made 
stoves popular he struck a terrible blow at the 
health of his compatriots; the introduction of 
steam heat and consequent suppression of all 
health-giving ventilation did the rest; the rosy 
cheeks of American children went up the chim- 
ney with the last whiff of wood smoke, and have, 
never returned. Much of our home life followed; 
no family can be expeded to gather in cheerful 
converse around a "radiator." 

How can this horror of fresh air among us be 
explained? If people really enjoy living in over- 
heated rooms with little or no ventilation, why 
is it that we hear so much complaining, when dur- 
ing the summer months the thermometer runs 
up into the familiar nineties? Why are children 
hurried out of town, and why do wives consider 
it a necessity to desert their husbands? 

It 's rather inconsistent, to say the least, for 
not one of those deserters but would "kick" if 
the theatre or church they attend fell below that 
temperature in December. 

It is impossible to go into our banks and offi- 
ces and not realize that the air has been breathed 
[86] 



^ CRT FO^ FRESH ^/2^ 

again and again, heated and cooled, but never 
changed, — doors and windows fit too tightly for 
that. 

The pallor and dazed expression of the em- 
ployees tell the same tale. I spoke to a youth the 
other day in an ofiice about his appearance and 
asked if he was ill. "Yes," he answered, "I have 
had a succession of colds all winter. You see, my 
desk here is next to the radiator, so I am in a 
perpetual perspiration and catch cold as soon as 
I go out. Last winter I passed three months in 
a farmhouse, where the water froze in my room at 
night, and we had to wear overcoats to our meals. 
Yet I never had a cold there, and gained in weight 
and strength." 

Twenty years ago no "palatial private resi- 
dence" was considered complete unless there was 
a stationary washstand (forming a direct con- 
nection with the sewer) in each bedroom. We 
looked pityingly on foreigners who did not enjoy 
these advantages, until one day we realized that 
the latter were in the right, and straightway sta- 
tionary washstands disappeared. 

How much time must pass and how many vic- 
tims be sacrificed before we come to our senses 
on the great radiator question? 

As a result of our population living in a fur- 
nace, it happens now that when you rebel on 
being forced to take an impromptu Turkish bath 
at a theatre, the usher answers your complaint 
with "It can't be as warm as you think, for a lady 

[87] 



THE IV^rS OF 3IECN^ 

over there has just told me she felt chilly and 
asked for more heat ! " 

Anotherinvention of the enemy is the"revolv- 
ingdoor. " By this ingenious contrivance thelittle 
fresh air that formerly crept into a building is now 
excluded. Which explains why on entering our 
larger hotels one is taken by the throat, as it were, 
by a sickening long-dead atmosphere — in which 
the souvenir of past meals and decaying flowers , 
floats like a regret — such as explorers must find 
on opening an Egyptian tomb. 

Absurd as it may seem, it has become a dis- 
tinction to have cool rooms. Alas, they are rare ! 
Those blessed households where one has the de- 
Hcious sensation of being chilly and can turn with 
pleasure toward crackling wood! The open fire 
has become, within the last decade, a test of refine- 
ment, almost a question of good breeding, form- 
ing a broad distinction between dainty households 
and vulgar ones, and marking the line which 
separates the homes of cultivated people from 
the parlors of those who care only for display. 

A drawing-room filled with heat, the source 
of which remains invisible, is as characteristic of 
the parvenu as clanking chains on a harness or 
fine clothes worn in the street. 

An open fire is the "eye" of a room, which can 
no more be attractive without it than the human 
face can be beautiful if it lacks the visual organs. 
The "gas fire" bears about the same relation to 
the real thing as a glass eye does to a natural one, 
[ 88] 



e/f CRT F07{^ FRESH exf/2^ 

and produces much the same sensation. Artificial 
eyes are painful necessities in some cases, and 
therefore cannot be condemned; but the house- 
hold which gathers complacently around a "gas 
log" must have something radically wrongwith it, 
and would be capable of worse offences against 
taste and hospitality. 

There is a tombstone in a New England grave- 
yard the inscription on which reads : " I was well, 
I wanted to be better. Here I am." ' 

As regards heating of our houses, it 's to be 
feared that we have gone much the same road as 
the unfortunate New Englander. I don't mean to 
imply that he is now suffering from too much heat, 
but we, as a nation, certainly are. 

Janitors and parlor-car condud:ors have re- 
placed the wicked fairies of other days, but are 
apparently animated by their malignant spirit, 
and employ their hours of brief authority as 
cruelly. No witch dancing around her boiling 
cauldron was ever more joyful than the fireman 
of a modern hotel, as he gleefully turns more and 
more steam upon his helpless vidtims. Long ac- 
quaintance with that gentleman has convinced me 
that he cannot plead ignorance as an excuse for 
falling into these excesses. It is pure, unadulter- 
ated perversity, else why should he invariably 
choose the mildest mornings to show what his 
engines can do? 

Many explanations have been offered for this 
love of a high temperature by our compatriots. 

[89] 



THE W^YS OF mEO^ 

Perhaps the true one has not yet been found. Is 
it not possible that what appears to be folly and 
almost criminal negligence of the rules of health, 
may be, after all, only a commendable ambition 
to renew the exploits of those biblical heroes, 
Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego? 



[90] 



N'- 12 

The Paris of our Grandparents 

WE are apt to fall into the error of assum- 
ing that only American cities have dis- 
placed their centres and changed their 
appearance during the last half-century. 

The "oldest inhabitant," with his twice-told 
tales of transformations and changes, is to a cer- 
tain extent responsible for this; by contrast, we 
imagine that the capitals of Europe have always 
been just as we see them. So strong is this im- 
pression that it requires a serious effort of the 
imagination to reconstrud; the Paris that our 
grandparents knew and admired, few as the years 
are that separate their day from ours. 

It is, for instance, difficult to conceive of a 
Paris that ended at the rue Royale, with only 
waste land and market gardens beyond the Made- 
leine, where to-day so many avenues open their 
stately perspedlives ; yet such was the case! The 
few fine residences that existed beyond that point 
faced the Faubourg Saint-Honore, with gardens 
running back to an unkempt open country called 
the Champs Elysees, where an unfinished Arc de 
Triomphe stood alone in a wilderness that no 
one ever dreamed of traversing. 

The fashionable ladies of that time drove in 
the afternoon along the boulevards from the 
Madeleine to the Chateau d'Eau, and stopped 

[91 ] 



THE W^YS OF 3I£:\^ 

their ponderous yellow barouches at Tortoni's, 
where ices were served to them in their carriages, 
while they chatted with immaculate dandies in 
skin-tight nankeen unmentionables, blue swal- 
low-tailed coats, and fiirry "beaver" hats. 

While looking over some books in the com- 
pany of an old lady who from time to time 
opens her store of treasures and recalls her re- 
mote youth at my request, and whose spirituel 
and graphic language gives to her souvenirs the 
air of being stray chapters from some old-fash- 
ioned romance, I received a vivid impression of 
how the French capital must have looked fifty 
years ago. 

Emptying in her company a chest of books 
that had not seen the light for several decades, 
we came across a " Panorama of the Boulevards," 
dated 1845, which proved when unfolded to be 
a colored lithograph, a couple of yards long by 
five or six inches high, representing the line of 
boulevards from the Madeleine to the Place de 
la Bastille. Each house, almost each tree, was 
faithfully depided, together with the crowds on 
the sidewalks and the carriages in the street. The 
whole scene was as different from the effedt made 
by that thoroughfare to-day as though five hun- 
dred and not fifty years had elapsed since the 
little book was printed. The pidure breathed an 
atmosphere of calm and nameless quaintness that 
one finds now only in old provincial cities which 
have escaped the ravages of improvement. 

[90 



TARIS OF OUT{^ QRANDPARENTS 

My companion sat with the book unfolded 
before her, in a smiHng trance. Her mind had 
turned back to the far-away days when she first 
trod those streets a bride, with all the pleasures 
and few of the cares of life to think about. 

I watched her in silence (it seemed a sacrilege 
to break in on such a train of thought), until grad- 
ually her eyes lost their far-away expression, and, 
turning to me with a smile, she exclaimed : " How 
we ever had the courage to appear in the street 
dressed as we were is a mystery ! Do you see that 
carriage?" pointing in the print to a high-swung 
family vehicle with a powdered coachman on the 
box, and two sky-blue lackeys standing behind. 
" I can remember, as if it were yesterday, going 
to drive with Lady B , the British ambassa- 
dress, in just such a conveyance. She drove four 
horses with feathers on their heads, when she 
used to come to Meurice's for me. I blush when 
I think that my frock was so scant that I had to 
raise the skirt almost to my knees in order to get 
into her carriage. 

"Why we did n't all die of pneumonia is an- 
other marvel, for we wore low-necked dresses 
and the thinnest of slippers in the street, our 
heads being about the only part that was com- 
pletely covered. I was particularly proud of a tur- 
ban surmounted with a bird of paradise, but 

Lady B affeded poke bonnets, then just 

coming into fashion, so large and so deep that 
when one looked at her from the side nothing 

[93 ] 



THE w^rs OF mED<^ 

was visible except two curls, *as damp and as 
black as leeches.' In other ways our toilets were 
absurdly unsuited for every-day wear; we wore 
light scarves over our necks, and rarely used fur- 
lined pelisses." 

Returning to an examination of the panorama, 
my companion pointed out to me that there was 
no break in the boulevards, where the opera- 
house, with its seven radiating avenues, now 
stands, but a long line of Hotels, dozing behind 
high walls, and quaint two-storied buildings that 
undoubtedly dated from the razing of the city 
wall and the opening of the new thoroughfare 
under Louis XV. 

A little farther on was the world-famous Mai- 
son Doree, where one almost expected to see 
Alfred de Musset and le dodeur Veron dining 
with Dumas and Eugene Sue. 

"What in the name of goodness is that?" I ex- 
claimed, pointing to a couple of black and yellow 
monstrosities on wheels, which looked like three 
carriages joined together with a "buggy" added 
on in front. 

"That's the diligencejust arrived from Calais ; 
it has been two days en route^ the passengers 
sleeping as best they could, side by side, and escap- 
ing from their confinement only when horses were 
changed or while stopping for meals. That high 
two-wheeled trap with the little * tiger' standing 
up behind is a tilbury. We used to see the Count 
d'Orsay driving one like that almost every day. 

[94] 



TJRIS OF 0U7{^ gRJNDPJRENTS 

He wore butter-colored gloves, and the skirts of 
his coat were pleated full all around, and stood 
out like a ballet girl's. It is a pity they have not 
included Louis Philippe and his family jogging 
off to Neuilly in the court ' carryall,' — the ' Citizen 
King,' with his blue umbrella between his knees, 
trying to look like an honest bourgeois, and fail- 
ing even in that attempt to please the Parisians. 

"We were in Paris in '48 ; from my window at 
Meurice's I saw poor old Juste Milieu read his 
abdication from the historic middle balcony of 
the Tuileries, and half an hour later we perceived 
the Duchesse d'Orleans leave the Tuileries on 
foot, leading her two sons by the hand, and walk 
through the gardens and across the Place de la 
Concorde to the Corps Legislatif, in a last attempt 
to save the crown for her son. Futile effort! That 
evening the 'Citizen King' was hurried through 
those same gardens and into a passing cab, en 
route for a life exile. 

"Our balcony at Meurice's was a fine point 
of observation from which to watch a revolution. 
With an opera-glass we could see the mob surg- 
ing to the sack of the palace, the priceless furni- 
ture and bric-a-brac flung into the street, court 
dresses waved on pikes from the tall windows, 
and finally the throne brought out, and carried 
off to be burned. There was no keeping the men 
of our party in after that. They rushed off to 
have a nearer glimpse of the fighting, and we saw 
no more of them until daybreak the following 

[95] . 



THE W^rS OF ME^H^ 

morning, when, just as we were preparing to send 
for the pohce, two dilapidated, ragged, black- 
faced mortals appeared, in whom we barely recog- 
nized our husbands. They had been impressed 
into service and passed their night building bar- 
ricades. My better half, however, had succeeded 
in snatching a handful of the gold fringe from 
the throne as it was carried by, an ad; of prowess 
that repaid him for all his troubles and fatigue. 

"I passed the greater part of forty-eight 
hours on our balcony, watching the mob march- 
ing by, singing La Marseillaise^ and camping 
at night in the streets. It was all I could do to 
tear myself away from the window long enough 
to eat and write in my journal. 

"There was no Avenue de I'Opera then. The 
trip from the boulevards to the Palais-Royal had 
to be made by a long detour across the Place 
Vendome (where, by the bye, a cattle market was 
held) or through a labyrinth of narrow, bad- 
smelling little streets, where strangers easily lost 
their way. Next to the boulevards, the Palais- 
Royal was the centre of the elegant and dissipated 
life in the capital. It was there we met of an af- 
ternoon to drink chocolate at the 'Rotonde,' or 
to dine at 'Les Trois Freres Proven^aux,' and 
let our husbands have a try at the gambling 
tables in the Passage d'Orleans. 

"No one thought of buying jewelry anywhere 
else. It was from the windows of its shops that the 
fashions started on their way around the world. 

[96] 



TJRIS OF 0U1{^ QRJNDPARENTS 

When Vidoria as a bride was visiting Louis Phi- 
lippe, she was so fascinated by the asped: of the 
place that the gallant French king ordered a 
miniature copy of the scene, made m papier-ma- 
che^ as a present for his guest, a sort of gigantic 
dolls' house in which not only the palace and its 
long colonnades were reproduced, but every tiny 
shop and the myriad articles for sale were copied 
with Chinese fidelity. Unfortunately the pear- 
headed old king became England's uninvited 
guest before this clumsy toy was finished, so it 
never crossed the Channel, but can be seen to-day 
by any one curious enough to examine it, in the 
Musee Carnavalet. 

" Few of us realize that the Paris of Charles 
X. and Louis Philippe would seem to us now 
a small, ill-paved, and worse-lighted provincial 
town, with few theatres or hotels, communicating 
with the outer world only by means of a horse- 
drawn 'post,' and pradically farther from Lon- 
don than Constantinople is to-day. One feels 
this isolation in the literature of the time; bril- 
liant as the epoch was, the horizon of its writers 
was bounded by the boulevards and the Fau- 
bourg Saint-Germain." 

Dumas says laughingly, in a letter to a friend: 
"I have never ventured into the unexplored 
country beyond the Bastille, but am convinced 
that it shelters wild animals and savages." The 
wit and brains of the period were concentrated 
into a small space. Money-making had no more 

[ 97 ] 



THE TV^rS OF mEO^ 

part in the programme of a writer then than an 
introdudion into "society." Catering to a for- 
eign market and snobbishness were undreamed- 
of degradations. Paris had not yet been turned 
into the Foire du Monde that she has since be- 
come, with whole quarters given over to the use 
of foreigners, — theatres, restaurants, and hotels 
created only for the use of a polyglot population 
that could give lessons to the people around 
Babel's famous "tower." 



[98] 



N"- 13 

Some American Husbands 



UNTIL the beginning ofthis century men 
played the I^eau role in hfe's comedy. As 
in the rest of the animal world, our males 
were the brilliant members of the community, 
flaunting their gaudy plumage at home and 
abroad, while the women-folk remained in se- 
clusion, tending their children, direding the ser- 
vants, or ministering to their lords' comfort. 

In those happy days the husband ruled su- 
preme at his own fireside, receiving the homage 
of the family, who bent to his will and obeyed 
his orders. 

During the last century, however, the "part" 
of better half has become less and less attradive 
in America, one prerogative after another having 
been whisked away by enterprising wives. Mod- 
ern Delilahs have yearly snipped off more and 
more of Samson's luxuriant curls, and added 
those ornaments to their own coiffures^ until in the 
majority of famihes the husband finds himself 
reduced to a state of bondage compared with 
which the biblical hero enjoyed a pampered idle- 
ness. Times have indeed changed in America 
since the native chief sat in dignified repose be- 
dizened with all the finery at hand, while the 
ladies of the family waited tremblingly upon 
him. To-day it is the American husband who 

[99 ] 



THE W^rS OF mE^H^ 

turns the grindstone all the year round, and it is 
his pretty tyrant who enjoys the elegant leisure 
that a century ago was considered a masculine 
luxury. 

To America must be given the credit of hav- 
ing produced the model husband, a new species, 
as it were, of t\\Q genus homo. 

In no role does a compatriot appear to such 
advantage as in that of Benedid:. As a boy he is 
often too advanced for his years or his informa- 
tion; in youth he is conspicuous neither for his 
culture nor his unselfishness. But once in matri- 
monial harness this untrained animal becomes 
bridle-wise with surprising rapidity, and will for 
the rest of life go through his paces, waltzing, 
kneeing, and saluting with hardly a touch of the 
whip. Whether this is the result of superior horse- 
womanship on the part of American wives or a 
trait peculiar to sons of " Uncle Sam," is hard 
to say, but the fad: is self-evident to any observer 
that our fair equestrians rarely meet with a rebel- 
lious mount. 

Any one who has studied marital ways in 
other lands will realize that in no country have 
the men effaced themselves so gracefully as with 
us. In thisresped no foreign produdtion can com- 
pare for a moment with the domestic article. In 
English, French, and German families the hus- 
band is still all-powerful. The house is mounted, 
guests are asked, and the year planned out to suit 
his occupations and pleasure. Here papa is rarely 

[ lOO ] 



SOME ^M ERIC AO^ HUSBANDS 

consulted until such matters have been decided 
upon by the ladies, when the head of the house 
is called in to sign the checks. 

I have had occasion more than once to bewail 
the shortcomings of the American man, and so 
take pleasure in pointing out the modesty and 
good temper with which he fills this role. He is 
trained from the beginning to give all and exped: 
nothing in return, an American girl rarely bring- 
ing any dot to her husband, no matter how wealthy 
her family maybe. If, as occasionally happens, an 
income is allowed a bride by her parents, she ex- 
pe6ls to spend it on her toilets or pleasures. This 
condition of the matrimonial market exists in no 
other country; even in England, where mariages 
de convenance are rare, "settlements" form an in- 
evitable prelude to conjugal bliss. 

The fad: that she contributes little or nothing 
to the common income in no way embarrasses an 
American wife; her pretensions are usually in an 
inverse proportion to her personal means. Aman 
I knew some years ago deliberately chose his bride 
from an impecunious family (in the hope that 
her simple surroundings had inculcated homely 
taste), and announced to an incredulous circle of 
friends, at his last bachelor dinner, that he in- 
tended, in future, to pass his evenings at his fire- 
side, between his book and his pretty spouse. 
Poor, innocent, confiding mortal ! The wife 
quickly became a belle of the fastest set in town. 
Having hadmore than shewanted of firesides and 
[ loi ] 



THE W^rS OF 3IEV^ 

quiet evenings before her marriage, her idea was 
to go about as much as possible, and, when not 
so occupied, to fill her house with company. It 
may be laid down as a maxim in this connexion 
that a man marries to obtain a home, and a girl 
to get away from one; hence disappointment on 
both sides. 

The couple in question have in all probability 
not passed an evening alone since they were mar- 
ried, the lady rarely stopping in the round of her 
gayeties until she collapses from fatigue. Their 
home is typical of their life, which itself can be 
taken as a good example of the existence that most 
of our "smart" people lead. The ground floor 
and the first floor are given up to entertaining. 
The second is occupied by the spacious sitting, 
bath, and sleeping rooms of the lady. A ten-by- 
twelve chamber suffices for my lord, and the 
only den he can rightly call his own is a small 
room near the front door, about as private as the 
sidewalk, which is turned into a cloak-room when- 
ever the couple receive, making it impossible to 
keep books or papers of value there, or even to 
use it as a smoking-room after dinner, so his 
men guests sit around the dismantled dining-table 
while the ladies are enjoying a suite of parlors 
above. 

At first the idea of such an unequal division 
of the house shocks our sense of justice, until we 
refledl that the American husband is not ex- 
pected to remain at home. That's not his place! 

[ 102 ] 



SOME ^MERICAD^ HUSBJNDS 

If he is not down town making money, fashion 
dictates that he must beat some club-house play- 
ing a game. A man who should remain at home, 
and read or chat with the ladies of his family, would 
be considered a bore and unmanly. There seems 
to be no place in an American house for its head. 
More than once when the friend I have referred 
to has asked me, at the club, to dine informally 
with him, we have found, on arriving, that Ma- 
dame, having an evening off, had gone to bed 
and forgotten to order any dinner, so we were 
obliged to return to the club for our meal. When, 
however, his wife is in good health, she expedls 
her weary husband to accompany her to dinner, 
opera, or ball, night after night, oblivious of the 
work the morrow holds in store for him. 

In one family I know, paterfamilias goes by 
the name of the "purse." The more one sees of 
American households the more appropriate that 
name appears. Everything isexpeded of the hus- 
band, and he is accorded no definite place in re- 
turn. He leaves the house at 8.30. When he re- 
turns, at five, if his wife is entertaining a man at 
tea, it would be considered the height of indeli- 
cacy for him to intrude upon them, for his arrival 
would cast a chill on the conversation. When a 
couple dine out, the husband is always la bete 
noire of the hostess, no woman wanting to sit next 
to a married man, if she can help it. 

The few Benedids who have had the cour- 
age to break away from these conditions and 

[ 103 ] 



THE IF^rS OF ME3^ 

amuse themselves with yachts, salmon rivers, or 
"grass-bachelor" trips to Europe, while secretly 
admired by the women, are frowned upon in so- 
ciety as dangerous examples, likely to sow the 
seeds of discontent among their comrades; al- 
though it is the commonest thing in theworld for 
an American wife to take the children and go 
abroad on a tour. 

Imagine a German or Italian wife announcing 
to her spouse that she had decided to run over to 
England for a year with her children, that they 
might learn English. The mind recoils in horror 
from the idea of the catastrophe that would ensue. 

Glance around a ball-room, a dinner party, or 
the opera, if you have any doubts as to the unsel- 
fishness of our married men. How many of them 
do you suppose are present for their own pleasure ? 
The owner of an opera box rarely retains a seat in 
his expensive quarters. You generally find him 
idling in the lobbies looking at his watch, or re- 
pairing to a neighboring concert hall to pass the 
weary hours. At a ball it is even worse. One won- 
ders why card-rooms are not provided at large 
balls (as is the custom abroad), where the bored 
husbands might find a little solace over " bridge," 
instead of yawning in the coat-room or making 
desperate signs to their wives from the doorway, 
— signals of distress, by the bye, that rarely pro- 
duce any effed. 

It is therebellious husband who is admired and 
courted, however. Acurioustraitof human nature 
[ 104 ] 



SOME t^M ERIC A 0^ HUSBA NDS 

compels admiration for whatever is harmful, and 
forces us, in spite of our better judgment, to de- 
preciate the useful and beneficent. The coats-of- 
arms of all countries are crowded with eagles and 
lions, that never yet did any good, living or dead ; 
orators enlarge on the fine qualities of these birds 
and beasts, and hold them up as models, while 
using as terms of reproach the name of the goose 
or the cow, creatures that minister in a hundred 
ways to our wants. Such a spirit has brought help- 
ful, productive "better halves" to the humble 
place they now occupy in the eyes of our people. 

As long as men passed their time in fighting 
and carousing they were heroes; as soon as they 
became patient bread-winners all the romance 
evaporated from their atmosphere. The Jewish 
Hercules had his revenge in the end and made 
things disagreeable for his tormentors. So far, 
however, there are no signs of a revolt among the 
shorn lambs in this country. They patiently bend 
their necks to the collar — the kindest, most lov- 
ing and devoted helpmates that ever plodded un- 
der the matrimonial yoke. 

When in the East, one watches with admiration 
the part a donkey plays in the economy of those 
primitive lands. All the work is reserved for that 
industrious animal, and little play falls to his 
share. The camel is always bad-tempered, and 
when overladen lies down, refusing to move until 
relieved of its burden. The Turk is lazy and self- 
ish, the native women pass their time in chatter- 

[ 105 ] 



THE TV^rS OF mEO^ 

ing and giggling, the children play and squabble, 
the ubiquitous dog sleeps in the sun; but from 
daybreak to midnight the little mouse-colored 
donkeys toil unceasingly. All burdens too bulky 
or too cumbersome for man are put on his back; 
the provender which horses and camels have re- 
fused becomes his portion ; he is the first to begin 
the day's labor, and the last to turn in. It is im- 
possible to live long in the Orient or the south 
of France without becoming attached to those 
gentle, willing animals. The role which honest 
"Bourico" fills so well abroad is played on this 
side of the Atlantic by the American husband. 
I mean no disrespedl to my married compatri- 
ots; on the contrary, I admire them as I do all 
docile, unselfish beings. It is well for our women, 
however, that their lords, like the little Oriental 
donkeys, ignore their strength, and are content to 
toil on to the end of their days, expeding neither 
praise nor thanks in return. 



[ >o6] 



^^ift'ik^^^^^^i^i^^^^^^^^i^^i^i^iftii^^i^*^ 



N°- 14 

"Caro/us'' 



IN the early seventies a group of students — 
dissatisfied with the cut-and-dried instruc- 
tion of the Paris art school and attraded by- 
certain quahties of color and technique in the 
work of a young Frenchman from the city of 
Lille, who was just beginning to attradt the at- 
tention of connoisseurs — went in a body to his 
studio with the request that he would oversee 
their work and diredt their studies. The artist thus 
chosen was Carolus-Duran. Oddly enough, a 
majority of the youths who sought him out and 
made him their master were Americans. 

The first modest workroom on the Boulevard 
Montparnasse was soon too small to hold the 
pupils who crowded under this newly raised ban- 
ner, and a move was made to more commodious 
quarters near the master's private studio. Sargent, 
Dannat, Harrison, Beckwith, Hinckley, and 
many others whom it is needless to mention here, 
will — if these lines come under their notice — 
doubtless recall with a thrill of pleasure the roomy 
one-storied strudure in the rue Notre-Dame des 
Champs where we established our atelier d'eleveSy 
a self-supporting cooperative concern, each stu- 
dent contributing ten francs a month toward rent, 
fire, and models, "Carolus" — the name by which 
this master is universally known abroad — not 

[ 107 ] 



THE W^rS OF ^EO^ 

only refusing all compensation, according to the 
immutable custom of French painters of distinc- 
tion, but, as we discovered later, contributing too 
often from his own pocket to help out the massier 
at the end of a difficult season, or smooth the 
path of some improvident pupil. 

Those were cloudless, enchanted days we 
passed in the tumbled down old atelier: an ardent 
springtime of life when the future beckons gayly 
and no doubts of success obscure the horizon. 
Our young master's enthusiasm fired his circle of 
pupils, who, as each succeeding year brought him 
increasing fame, revelled in a reflecfted glory with 
the generous admiration of youth, in which there 
is neither calculation nor shadow of envy. 

A portrait of Madame de Portalais, exhibited 
about this time, drew all art-loving Paris around 
the new celebrity's canvas. Shortly after, the gov- 
ernment purchased a painting (of our master's 
beautiful wife), now known as La Femme au Gant^ 
for the Luxembourg Gallery. 

It is difficult to overestimate the impetus that 
a master's successes impart to the progress of his 
pupils. My first studious year in Paris had been 
passed in the shadow of an elderly painter, who 
was comfortably dozing on the laurels of thirty 
years before. The change from that sleepy en- 
vironment to the vivid enthusiasm and dash of 
Carolus-Duran's studio was like stepping out of 
a musty cloister into the warmth and movement 
of a market-place. 

[ loS] 



''C^RO LUS 



Here, be it said in passing, lies perhaps the 
secret of the dry rot that too often settles on our 
American art schools. We, for some unknown 
reason, do not take the work of native painters 
seriously, nor encourage them in proportion to 
their merit. In consequence they retain but a fee- 
ble hold upon their pupils. 

Carolus,handsome,young, successful, courted, 
was an ideal leader for a band of ambitious, high- 
strung youths, repaying their devotion with an 
untiring interest and lifting clever and dull alike 
on the strong wings of his genius. His visits to 
the studio, on which his friend Henner often 
accompanied him, were frequent and prolonged; 
certain Tuesdays being especially appreciated by 
us, as they were set apart for his criticism of 
original compositions. 

When our sketches (the subjed: for which had 
been given out in advance) were arranged, and 
we had seated ourselves in a big half-circle on the 
floor, Carolus would install himself on a tall stool, 
the one seat the studio boasted, and ch3.t a propos 
of the works before him on composition, on clas- 
sic art, on the theories of color and clair-obscur. 
Brilliant talks, inlaid with much wit and incisive 
criticism, the memory of which must linger in the 
minds of all who were fortunate enough to hear 
them. Nor was it to the studio alone that our 
master's interest followed us. He would drop in 
at the Louvre, when we were copying there, and 
after some pleasant words of advice and encour- 

[ 109 ] 



THE W^rS OF ME 3^ 

agement, lead us off for a stroll through the gal- 
leries, interrupted by stations before his favorite 
masterpieces. 

So important has he always considered a con- 
stant study of Renaissance art that recently, when 
about to commence his 'Triumph of Bacchus^ Caro- 
lus copied one of Rubens's larger canvases with 
all the naivete of a beginner. 

An occasion soon presented itself for us to 
learn another side of our trade by working with 
our master on a ceiling ordered of him by the 
state for the Palace of the Luxembourg. The vast 
studios which the city of Paris provides on oc- 
casions of this kind, with a liberality that should 
make our home corporations refled:, are situated 
out beyond the Exhibition buildings, in a curi- 
ous, unfrequented quarter, ignored alike by Pari- 
sians and tourists, where the city stores com- 
promising statues and the valuable debris of her 
many revolutions. There, among throneless Na- 
poleons and riderless bronze steeds, we toiled for 
over six months side by side with our master, on 
a gigantic Apotheosis of Marie de Medici s^ serving 
in turn as painter and painted, and leaving the 
imprint of our hands and the refleftion of our 
faces scattered about the composition. Day after 
day, when work was over, we would hoist the 
big canvas by means of a system of ropes and 
pulleys, from a perpendicular to the horizontal 
position it was to occupy permanently, and then 
sit straining our necks and discussing the prog- 
[no] 



''C ^ROLUS" 



ress of the work until the tardy spring twilight 
warned us to depart. 

The year 1877 brought Carolus-Duran the 
medaille d'honneur^ a crowning recompense that 
set the atelier mad with delight. We immediately 
organized a great (but economical) banquet to 
commemorate the event, over which our master 
presided, with much modesty, considering the 
amount of incense we burned before him, and 
the speeches we made. One of our number even 
burst into some very bad French verses, assert- 
ing that the painters of the world in general fell 
back before him — 

. . . epouvanth — 
Craignant igalement sa brosse et son iph. 

This allusion to his proficiency in fencing was 
considered particularly neat, and became the fa- 
vorite song of the studio, to be howled in and out 
of season. 

Curiously enough, there is always something 
in Carolus-Duran's attitude when at work which 
recalls the swordsman. With an enormous pal- 
ette in one hand and a brush in the other, he has 
a way of planting himself in front of his sitter that 
is amusingly suggestive of a duel. His lithe body 
sways to and fro, his fine leonine face quivers with 
the intense study of his model ; then with a sud- 
den spring forward, a few rapid touches are dashed 
on the canvas (like home strokes in the enemy's 
weakest spot) with a precision of hand acquired 
only by long years of fencing. 

[ "■ ] 



THE w^rs OF 3Ie:\^ 

An order to paint the king and queen of 
Portugal was the next step on the road to fame, 
another rung on the pleasant ladder of success. 
When this work was done the delighted sover- 
eign presented the painter with the order of 
"Christ of Portugal," together with many other 
gifts, among which a caricature of the master at 
work, signed by his sitter, is not the least valued. 

When the great schism occurred several years 
ago which rent the art world of France, Carolus- 
Duran was eledled vice-president of the new 
school under Meissonier, to whose office he suc- 
ceeded on that master's death; and now diredls 
and presides over the yearly exhibition known 
as the Salon du Champ de Mars. 

At his chateau near Paris or at Saint Raphael, 
on the Mediterranean, the master lives, like Leo- 
nardo of old, the existence of a grand seigneur, 
surrounded by his family, innumerable guests, 
and the horses and dogs he loves, — a group of 
which his ornate figure and expressive face form 
the natural centre. Each year he lives more away 
from the world, but no more inspiriting sight 
can be imagined than the welcome the president 
receives of a "varnishing" day, when he makes 
his entry surrounded by his pupils. The students 
cheer themselves hoarse, and the public climbs on 
everything that comes to hand to see him pass. 
It is hard to realize then that this is the same 
man who, not content with his youthful progress, 
retired into an Italian monastery that he might 

[ "2] 



''C^ROLUS" 



commune face to face with nature undisturbed. 

The works of no other painter give me the 
same sensation of quivering vitahty, except the 
Velasquez in the Madrid Gallery and, perhaps, 
Sargent at his best; and one feels all through the 
American painter's work the influence of his 
first and only master. 

" Tout ce qui n est pas indispensable est nuisihle^^ 
a phrase which is often on Carolus-Duran's lips, 
may be taken as the keynote of his work, where 
one finds a noble simplicity of line and color 
scheme, an elimination of useless detail, a con- 
tempt for tricks to enforce an effecft, and above 
all a comprehension and mastery of light, vitality, 
and texture — those three unities of the painter's 
art — that bring his canvases very near to those 
of his self-imposed Spanish master. 

Those who know the French painter's more 
important works and his many splendid studies 
from the nude, feel it a pity that such master- 
pieces as the equestrian portrait of Mile. Croi- 
sette, of the Comedie Fran^aise, the Reveil^ the 
superb full length of Mme. Pelouse on the Ter- 
race of Chenonceau, and the head of Gounod in 
the Luxembourg, could not be colled:ed into one 
exhibition, that lovers of art here in America 
might realize for themselves how this master's 
works are of the class that typify a school and 
an epoch, and engrave their author's name among 
those destined to become household words in the 
mouths of future generations. 

[ "3 ] 



N"- 15 

The Grand Opera Fad 

WITHOUT being more curious than 
my neighbors, there are several social 
mysteries that I should like to fathom, 
among others, the real reasons that induce the 
different classes of people one sees at the opera 
to attend that form of entertainment. 

A taste for the theatre is natural enough. It 
is also easy to understand why people who are 
fond of sport and animals enjoy races and dog 
shows. But the continued vogue of grand opera, 
and more especially of Wagner's long-drawn-out 
compositions, among our restless, unmusical 
compatriots, remains unexplained. 

The sheeplike docility of our public is appar- 
ent in numberless ways; in none, however, more 
strikingly than in their choice of amusements. In 
business and religion, people occasionally think 
for themselves ; in the seleftion of entertainments, 
never! but are apparently content to receive their 
opinions and prejudices ready-made from some 
unseen and omnipotent Areopagus. 

The careful study of an opera audience from 
different parts of our auditorium has brought me 
to the conclusion that the public there may be 
loosely divided into three classes — leaving out 
reporters of fashionable intelligence, dressmakers 
in search of ideas, and the lady inhabitants of 

[ "4] 



THE qR^NT> oterj: f^t> 

"Crank Alley" (as a certain corner of the or- 
chestra is called), who sit in perpetual adoration 
before the elderly tenor. 

First — but before venturing further on dan- 
gerously thin ice, it may be as well to suggest that 
this subjed; is not treated in absolute seriousness, 
and that all assertions must not be taken au pied 
de la lettre. First, then, and most important, 
come the stockholders, for without them the 
Metropolitan would close. The majority of these 
fortunate people and their guests look upon the 
opera as a social fundlion, where one can meet 
one's friends and be seen, an entertaining ante- 
chamber in which to linger until it 's time to "go 
on," her Box being to-day as necessary a part 
of a great lady's outfit as a country house or a 
ball-room. 

Second are those who attend because it has 
become the correal thing to be seen at the opera. 
There is so much wealth in this city and so little 
opportunity for its display, so many people long 
to go about who are asked nowhere, that the op- 
era has been seized upon as a centre in which to 
air rich apparel and elbow the "world." This list 
fills a large part of the closely packed parquet 
and first balcony. 

Third, and last, come the lovers of music, who 
mostly inhabit greater altitudes. 

The motive of the typical box-owner is simple. 
Her night at the opera is the excuse for a cosy 
little dinner, one woman friend (two would spoil 

[ "5] 



THE TV^rS OF mE^H^ 

the effedt of the box) and four men, without 
counting the husband, who appears at dinner, but 
rarely goes further. The pleasant meal and the 
subsequent smoke are prolonged until 9 or 9.30, 
when the men are finally dragged murmuring 
from their cigars. If she has been fortunate and 
timed her arrival to correspond with an entraSle^ 
my lady is radiant. The lights are up, she can see 
who are present, and the public can insped: her 
toilet and jewels as she settles herself under the 
combined gaze of the house, and proceeds to hold 
an informal reception for the rest of the evening. 
The men she has brought with her quickly cede 
their places to callers, and wander yawning in the 
lobby or invade the neighboring boxes and add 
their voices to the general murmur. 

Although there is much less talking than for- 
merly, it is the toleration of this custom at all by 
the public that indicates (along with many other 
straws) that we are not a music-loving people. Au- 
dible conversation during a performance would 
not be allowed for a moment by a Continental 
audience. The little visiting that takes place in 
boxes abroad is done during the entr'a^fes^ when 
people retire to the salons back of their loges to 
eat ices and chat. Here those little parlors are 
turned into cloak-rooms, and small talk goes on 
in many boxes during the entire performance. 
The joke or scandal of the day is discussed; 
strangers in town, or literary and artistic lights — 
"freaks," they are discriminatingly called — are 
[ "6] 



THE gR^NT> OTER^ F ^ T> 

pointed out, toilets passed in review, and those 
dreadful two hours passed which, for some un- 
discovered reason, must elapse between a dinner 
and a dance. If a favorite tenor is singing, and 
no one happens to be whispering nonsense over 
her shoulder, my lady may listen in a distrait way. 
It is not safe, however, to count on prolonged 
attention or ask her questions about the perfor- 
mance. She is apt to be a bit hazy as to who is sing- 
ing, and with the exception of Faust and Car- 
men^ has rudimentary ideas about plots. Singers 
come and go, weep, swoon, or are killed, with- 
out interfering with her equanimity. She has, 
for instance, seen the Huguenots and the Rhein- 
gold dozens of times, but knows no more why 
Raoul is brought blindfolded to Chenonceaux, 
or what Wotan and Erda say to each other in 
their interminable scenes, than she does of the 
contents of the Vedas. For the matter of that, if 
three or four principal airs were suppressed from 
an opera and the scenery and costumes changed, 
many in that chattering circle would, I fear, not 
know what they were listening to. 

Last winter, when Melba sang in Aida^ dis- 
guised by dark hair and a brown skin, a lady 
near me vouchsafed the opinion that the "little 
black woman had n't a bad voice;" a gentleman 
(to whom I remarked last week "that as Sem- 
brich had sung Rosina in the 5<2r/^^r, it was rather 
a shock to see her appear as that lady's servant 
in the Manage de Figaro'') looked his blank 

[ "7] 



THE W^rS OF 3^ED^ 

amazement until it was explained to him that 
one of those operas was a continuation of the 
other. After a pause he remarked, "They are 
not by the same composer, anyway ! Because the 
first 's by Rossini, and the Manage is by Bon 
Marche. I Ve been at his shop in Paris." 

The presence of the second category — the 
would-be fashionable people — is not so easily 
accounted for. Their attendance can hardly be 
attributed to love of melody, as they are, if any- 
thing, a shade less musical than the box-dwellers, 
who, by the bye, seem to exercise an irresistible 
fascination, to judge by the trend of conversation 
and direftion of glasses. Although an imposing 
and sufficiently attentive throng, it would be dif- 
ficult to find a less discriminating public than 
that which gathers nightly in the Metropolitan 
parterre. One wonders how many of those peo- 
ple care for music and how many attend because 
it is expensive and "swell." 

They will listen with the same bland content- 
ment to either bad or good performances so long 
as a world-renowned artist (some one who is be- 
ing paid a comfortable little fortune for the even- 
ing) is on the stage. The orchestra may be badly 
led (it often is) ; the singers may flat or be out of 
voice; the performance may go all at sixes and 
sevens — there is never a murmur of dissent. 
Faults that would set an entire audience at Na- 
ples or Milan hissing are accepted herewith igno- 
rant approval. 

[ "8] 



THE qR^NT> OTER^ F ^ T> 

The unfortunate part of it is that this weak- 
ness of ours has become known. The singers feel 
they can give an American audience any slipshod 
performance. I have seen a favorite soprano shrug 
her shoulders as she entered her dressing-room 
and exclaim : '■'■Mon Dieu / H ow I shuffled through 
that ad ! They 'd have hooted me off the stage in 
Berlin, but here no one seems to care. Did you 
notice the baritone to-night? He was n't on the 
key once during our duo. I cannot sing my best, 
try as I will, when I hear the public applauding 
good and bad alike!" 

It is strange that our pleasure-loving rich peo- 
ple should have hit on the opera as a favorite 
haunt. We and the English are the only race who 
will attend performances in a foreign language 
which we don't understand. How can intelligent 
people who don't care for music go on, season 
after season, listening to operas, the plots of which 
they ignore, and which in their hearts they find 
dull? 

Is it so very amusing to watch two middle- 
aged ladies nagging each other, at two o'clock in 
the morning, on a public square, as they do in 
Lohengrin? Do people find the lecture that 
Isolde's husband delivers to the guilty lovers 
entertaining? Does an opera produce any illusion 
on my neighbors? I wish it did on me! I see too 
plainly the paint on the singers' hot faces and the 
cords straining in their tired throats ! I sit on cer- 
tain nights in agony, fearing to see stout Romeo 

[119] 



THE WJtrS, OF 31 £J^ 

roll on the stage in apoplexy ! The sopranos, too, 
have a way, when about to emit a roulade, that is 
more suggestive of a dentist's chair, and the at- 
tendant gargle, than of a love phrase. 

When two celebrities combine in a final duo, 
facing the public and not each other, they give 
the impression of vidims whom an unseen in- 
quisitor is torturing. Each turn of his screw draws 
out a wilder cry. The orchestra (in the pay 
of the demon) does all it can to prevent their 
shrieks from reaching the public. The lovers in 
turn redouble their efforts; they are purple in the 
face and glistening with perspiration. Defeat, 
they know, is before them, for the orchestra has 
the greater staying power! The flutes bleat; the 
trombones grunt; the fiddles squeal; an epilep- 
tic leader cuts wildly into the air about him. 
When, finally, their strength exhausted, the 
breathless human beings, with one last ear-pierc- 
ing note, give up the struggle and retire, the pub- 
lic, excited by the unequal contest, bursts into 
thunders of applause. 

Why would n't it be a good idea, in order to 
avoid these painful exhibitions, to have an ar- 
rangement of screens, with the singing people 
behind and a company of young and attractive 
pantomimists going through the gestures and 
movements in front .^ Otherwise, how can the 
most imaginative natures lose themselves at an 
opera? Even when the singers are comely, there 
is always that eternal double row of stony-faced 

[ i^o ] 



THE qR^NT> OTER^ F ^ T> 

witnesses in full view, whom no crimes astonish 
and no misfortunes melt. It takes most of the 
poetry out of Faust's first words with Margue- 
rite, to have that short interview interrupted by 
a line of old, weary women shouting, " Let us 
whirl in the waltz o'er the mount and the plain ! " 
Or when Scotch Lucy appears in a smart tea- 
gown and is good enough to perform difficult 
exercises before a half-circle of Italian gentlemen 
in pantalets and ladies in court costumes, does 
she give any one the illusion of an abandoned 
wife, dying of a broken heart alone in the High- 
lands? Broken heart, indeed! It's much more 
likely she'll die of a ruptured blood-vessel! 

Philistines in matters musical, like myself, un- 
fortunate mortals whom the sweetest sounds fail 
to enthrall when conneded with no memory or 
idea, or when prolonged beyond a limited period, 
must approach the third group with hesitation 
and awe. That they are sincere, is evident. The 
rapt expressions of their faces, and their patience, 
bear testimony to this fad. For a long time I 
asked myself, "Where have I seen that intense, 
absorbed attitude before?" Suddenly one evening 
another scene rose in my memory. 

Have you ever visited Tangiers? In the mar- 
ket-place of that city you will find the inhabitants 
-crouched by hundreds around their native mu- 
sicians. When we were there, one old duffer — 
the Wagner, doubtless, of the place — was having 
an immense success. No matter at what hour of 

[ >^i ] 



THE W^rS OF a4E3^ 

the day we passed through that square, there was 
always the same spellbound circle of half-clad 
Turks and Arabs squatting silent while " Wag- 
ner" tinkled to them on a three-stringed lute and 
chanted in a high-pitched, dismal whine — like 
the squeaking of an unfastened door in the wind. 
At times, for no apparent reason, the never-vary- 
ing, never-ending measure would be interrupted 
by a flutter of applause, but his audience remained 
mostly sunk in a hypnotic apathy. I never see 
a " Ring" audience now without thinking of that 
scene outside the Bab-el- Marsa gate, which has 
led me to ask diflFerent people just what sensations 
serious music produced upon them. The answers 
have been varied and interesting. One good lady 
who rarely misses a German opera confessed that 
sweet sounds adtedupon her like opium. Neither 
scenery nor adling nor plot were of any impor- 
tance. From the first notes of the overture to the 
end, she floated in an ecstatic dream, oblivious 
of time and place. When it was over she came 
back to herself faint with fatigue. Another pro- 
fessed lover of Wagner said that his greatest pleas- 
ure was in following the difi^erent "motives" as 
they recurred in the music. My faith in that gen- 
tleman was shaken, however, when I found the 
other evening that he had mistaken Van Dyck 
for Jean de Reszke through an entire perfor- 
mance. He may be a dab at recognizing his 
friends the "motives," but his discoveries don't 
apparently go as far as tenors! 

[ 1^2 ] 



THE qR^NT> oterj: F^T) 

No one doubts that hundreds of people un- 
afFededly love German opera, but that as many 
affed to appreciate it in order to appear intel- 
ledual is certain. 

Once upon a time the unworthy member of 
an ultra-serious "Browning" class in this city, 
doubting the sincerity of her companions, asked 
permission to read them a poem of the master's 
which she found beyond her comprehension. 
When the reading was over the opinion of her 
friends was unanimous: " Nothing could be sim- 
pler! The lines were lucidity itself! Such close 
reasoning, etc." But dismay fell upon them when 
the naughty lady announced, with a peal of laugh- 
ter, that she had been reading alternate hnes from 
opposite pages. She no longer disturbs the har- 
mony of that circle! 

Bearing this tale in mind, I once asked a 
musician what proportion of the audience at a 
"Ring" performance he thought would know if 
alternate scenes were given from two of Wag- 
ner's operas, unless the scenery enlightened them. 
His estimate was that perhaps fifty per cent 
might find out the fraud. He put the number 
of people who could give an intelligent account 
of those plots at about thirty per hundred. 

The popularity of music, he added, is largely 
due to the fad: that it saves people the trouble 
of thinking. Pleasant sounds soothe the nerves, 
and, if prolonged long enough in a darkened 
room will, like the Eastern tom-toms, lull the 

[ 1^3 ] 



THE w^rs OF mED^ 

senses into a mild form of trance. This must be 
what the gentleman meant who said he wished 
he could sleep as well in a "Wagner" car as he 
did at one of his operas! 

Being a tailless old fox, I look with ever-in- 
creasing suspicion on the too-luxuriant caudal 
appendages of my neighbors, and think with 
amusement of the multitudes who during the 
last ten years have sacrificed themselves upon 
the altar of grand opera — simple, kindly souls, 
with little or no taste for classical music, who 
have sat in the dark (mentally and physically), 
applauding what they did n't understand, and lis- 
tening to vague German mythology set to sounds 
that appear to us outsiders like music sunk into 
a verbose dotage. I am convinced the greater 
number would have preferred a jolly perfor- 
mance of Mme. Angot or the Cloches de Corneville^ 
cut in two by a good ballet. 

It is, however, so easy to be mistaken on sub- 
jects of this kind that generalizing is dangerous. 
Many great authorities have liked tuneless mu- 
sic. One of the most telling arguments in its 
favor was recently advanced by a foreigner. The 
Chinese ambassador told us last winter in a club 
at Washington that Wagner's was the only Eu- 
ropean music that he appreciated and enjoyed. 
"You see," he added, "music is a much older 
art with us than in Europe, and has naturally 
reached a far greater perfection. The German 
school has made a long step in advance, and I 
[ 124 ] 



THE gR^NT> oterj: f^t> 

can now foresee a day not far distant when, under 
its influence, your music will closely resemble 
our own." 



[ 1^5] 



Xf ^ Xf ^ ^ A ^ ^b ^& ^ ^ ^f ^ ^^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^& ^f 5Af VXf VXf ^Xf ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ 

iV^- i6 

The Poetic Cabarets of Paris 



THOSE who have not Hved in France can 
form little idea of the important place 
the cafe occupies in the life of an average 
Frenchman, clubs as we know them or as they 
exist in England being rare, and when found be- 
ing, with few exceptions, but gambling-houses in 
disguise. As a Frenchman rarely asks an acquain- 
tance, or even a friend, to his apartment, the cafe 
has become the common ground where all meet, 
for business or pleasure. Not in Paris only, but 
all over France, in every garrison town, provin- 
cial city, or tiny village, the cafe is the chief at- 
traction, the centre of thought, the focus toward 
which all the rays of masculine existence converge. 
For the student, newly arrived from the prov- 
inces, to whose modest purse the theatres and other 
places of amusement are pradically closed, the 
cafe is a supreme resource. His mind is moulded, 
his ideas and opinions formed, more by what he 
hears and sees there than by any other influence. 
A restaurant is of little importance. One may eat 
anywhere. But the choice of his cafey^WX often give 
the bent to a young man's career, and indicate his 
exadt shade of politics and his opinions on litera- 
ture, music, or art. In Paris, to know a man at 
all is to know where you can find him at the hour 
of the aperitif — what Baudelaire called 
[ 126] 



TOETIC CABARETS OF TARIS 

Uheure sainte 
• De r absinthe. 

When young men form a society among them- 
selves, a cafe is chosen as their meeting-place. 
Thousands of establishments exist only by such 
patronage, as, for example, the Cafe de la Re- 
gence. Place du Theatre Fran^ais, which is fre- 
quented entirely by men who play chess. 

Business men transad: their affairs as much 
over their coffee as in their offices. The reading 
man finds at his cafe the daily and weekly papers ; 
a writer is sure of the undisturbed possession of 
pen, ink, and paper. Henri Murger, the author, 
when asked once why he continued to patronize 
a certain establishment notorious for the inferior 
quality of its beer, answered, "Yes, the beer is 
poor, but they keep such good ink ! " 

The use of a cafe does not imply any great ex- 
penditure, a consommation costing but little. With 
it is acquired the right to use the establishment 
for an indefinite number of hours, the client be- 
ing warmed, lighted, and served. From five to 
seven, and again after dinner, the habitues stroll 
in, grouping themselves about the small tables, 
each new-comer joining a congenial circle, order- 
ing his drink, and settling himself for a long sit- 
ting. The last editorial, the newest pidure, or the 
fall of a ministry is discussed with a vehemence 
and an interest unknown to Anglo-Saxon na- 
tures. Suddenly, in the excitement of the discus- 
sion, some one will rise in his place and begin 

[ 1^7 ] 



THE W^rS OF ^MEO^ 

speaking. If you happen to drop in at that mo- 
ment, the lady at the desk will welcome you with, 
"You are just in time! Monsieur So-and-So is 
speaking ; the evening promises to be interesting." 
She is charmed; her establishment will shine with 
a refledled light, and new patrons be drawn there, 
if the debates are brilliant. So universal is this 
custom that there is hardly an orator to-day at 
the French bar or in the Senate, who has not 
broken his first lance in some such obscure tour- 
nament, under the smiling glances of the dame 
du comptoir. 

Opposite the Palace of the Luxembourg, in 
the heart of the old Latin Quarter, stands a 
quaint building, half hotel, half <:^/^, where many 
years ago Joseph IL resided while visiting his 
sister, Marie Antoinette. It is known now as 
Foyot's; this name must awaken many happy 
memories in the hearts of American students, for 
it was long their favorite meeting-place. In the 
early seventies a club, formed among the literary 
and poetic youth of Paris, seleded Foyot's as 
their "home" during the winter months. Their 
summer vacations were spent in visiting the uni- 
versity towns of France, reciting verses, or adling 
in original plays at Nancy, Bordeaux, Lyons, or 
Caen. The enthusiasm these youthful perfor- 
mances created inspired one of their number with 
the idea of creating in Paris, on a permanent foot- 
ing, a centre where a limited public could meet 
the young poets of the day and hear them recite 

[ 128 ] 



TOETIC CABARETS OF TARIS 

their verses and monologues in an informal way. 

The success of the original "Chat Noir," the 
first cabaret of this kind, was largely owing to the 
sympathetic and attradiive nature of its founder, 
young Salis, who drew around him, by his sunny 
disposition, shy personalities who, but for him, 
would still be "mute, inglorious Miltons." Un- 
der his kindly and discriminating rule many a 
successful literary career has started. Salis's gifted 
nature combined a delicate taste and critical acu- 
men with a rare business ability. His first ven- 
ture, an obscure little cafe on the Boulevard 
Rochechouart, in the outlying quarter beyond 
the Place Pigalle, quickly became famous, its 
ever-increasing vogue forcing its happy proprie- 
tor to seek more commodious quarters in the rue 
Vid;or Masse, where the world-famous "Chat 
Noir" was installed with much pomp and many 
joyous ceremonies. 

The old word cabaret^ corresponding closely 
to our English "inn," was chosen, and the estab- 
lishment decorated in imitation of a Louis XIII. 
hotellerie. Oaken beams supported the low-stud- 
ded ceilings. The plaster walls disappeared be- 
hind tapestries, armor, o\d faience. Beer and other 
liquids were served in quaint porcelain or pewter 
mugs, and the waiters were dressed (merry anach- 
ronism) in the costume of members of the Insti- 
tute (the Immortal Forty), who had so long led 
poetry in chains. The success of the " Black Cat" 
in her new quarters was immense, all Paris crowd- 
[ 129 ] 



THE W^rS OF :MEV^ 

ing through her modest doors. Salis had founded 
Montmartre! — the rugged old hill giving birth 
to a generation of writers and poets, and nourish- 
ing this new school at her granite breasts. 

It would be difficult to imagine a form of en- 
tertainment more tempting than was offered in 
this picturesque inn. In addition to the first, 
the entire second floor of the building had been 
thrown into one large room, the walls covered 
with a thousand sketches, caricatures, and crayon 
drawings by hands since celebrated the world 
over. A piano, with many chairs and tables, com- 
pleted the unpretending installation. Here, dur- 
ing a couple of hours each evening, either by the 
piano or simply standing in their places, the 
young poets gave utterance to the creations of 
their imagination, the musicians played their 
latest inspirations, the raconteur told his newest 
story. They called each other and the better 
known among the guests by their names, and 
joked mutual weaknesses, eliminating from these 
gatherings every shade of a perfundory perfor- 
mance. 

It is impossible to give an idea of the delicate 
flavor of such informal evenings — the sensation 
of being at home that the picturesque surround- 
ings produced, the low murmur of conversation, 
the clink of glasses, the swing of the waltz 
movement played by a master hand, interrupted 
only when some slender form would lean against 
the piano and pour forth burning words of in- 

[ 130 ] 



TOETIC CABARETS OF TARIS 

finite pathos, — the inspired young face lighted 
up by the passion and power of the lines. The 
burst of applause that his talent called forth would 
hardly have died away before another figure would 
take the poet's place, a wave of laughter welcom- 
ing the new-comer, whose twinkling eyes and de- 
mure smile promised a treat of fun and humor. 
So the evening would wear gayly to its end, the 
younger element in the audience, full of the fu- 
ture, drinking in long draughts of poetry and art, 
the elders charmed to live over again the days of 
their youth and feel in touch once more with the 
present. 

In this world of routine and conventions an 
innovation as brilliantly successful as this could 
hardly be inaugurated without raising a whirl- 
wind of jealousy and opposition. The struggle 
was long and arduous. Direftors of theatres and 
concert halls, furious to see a part of their pub- 
lic tempted away, raised the cry of immorality 
against the new-comers, and called to their aid 
every resource of law and chicanery. At the end 
of the first year Salis found himself with over 
eight hundred summonses and lawsuits on his 
hands. After having made every effort, knocked 
at every door, in his struggle for existence, he 
finally conceived the happy thought of appealing 
diredly to Grevy, then President of the Repub- 
lic, and in his audience with the latter succeeded 
in charming and interesting him, as he had so 
many others. The influence of the head of the 

[ >3i 3 



THE PF^rS OF 3iE0^ 

state once brought to bear on the affair, Salis had 
the joy of seeing opposition crushed and the 
storm blow itself out. 

From this moment, the poets, feeling them- 
selves appreciated and their rights acknowledged 
and defended, flocked to the " Sacred Mountain," 
as Montmartre began to be called; other estab- 
lishments of the same charafter sprang up in the 
neighborhood. Most important among these 
were the "4 z'Arts," Boulevard de Clichy, the 
"Tambourin," and La Butte. 

Trombert, who, together with Fragerolle, 
Goudezki, and Marcel Lefevre, had just ended 
an artistic voyage in the south of France, opened 
the "4 z'Arts," to which the novelty-loving pub- 
lic quickly found its way, crowding to applaud 
Coquelin cadet^ Fragson, and other budding 
celebrities. It was here that the poets first had 
the idea of producing a piece in which rival 
cabarets were reviewed and laughingly criticised. 
The success was beyond all precedent, in spite 
of the difficulty of giving a play without a stage, 
without scenery or accessories of any kind, the in- 
terest centring in the talent with which the lines 
were declaimed by their authors, who next had 
the pleasant thought of passing in review the dif- 
ferent classes of popular songs, Clovis Hugues, 
at the same time poet and statesman, discoursing 
on each subje6l,and introducing the singer; Brit- 
tany local songs, Provengal ballads, and the half 
Spanish, half French chansons of the Pyrenees 

[ 132 ] 



TOETIC CABARETS OF PARIS 

were sung or recited by local poets with the charm 
and abandon of their distinctive races. 

The great critics did not disdain to attend these 
informal gatherings, nor to write columns of se- 
rious criticism on the subje6t in their papers. 

At the hour when all Paris takes its aperitif th.Q 
"4 z' Arts " became the meeting-place of the paint- 
ers, poets, and writers of the day. Montmartre 
gradually replaced the old Latin Quarter; it is 
there to-day that one must seek for the gayety 
and humor, the pathos and the makeshifts of 
Bohemia. 

The "4 z'Arts," next to the " Chat Noir," has 
had the greatest influence on the taste of our time, 
— the pleiad of poets that grouped themselves 
around it in the beginning, dispersing later to 
form other centres, which, in their turn, were to 
influence the minds and moods of thousands. 

Another charming form of entertainment in- 
augurated by this group of men is that of 
"shadow pictures," conceived originally by Ca- 
ran d'Ache, and carried by him to a marvellous 
perfection. A medium-sized frame filled with 
ground glass is suspended at one end of a 
room and surrounded by sombre draperies. The 
room is darkened; against the luminous back- 
ground of the glass appear small black groups 
(shadows cast by figures cut out of cardboard). 
These figures move, advancing and retreating, 
grouping or separating themselves to the cadence 
of the poet's verses, for which they form the most 

[ ^33 ] 



THE W^YS OF 3IE^ 

original and striking illustrations. Entire poems 
are given accompanied by these shadow pictures. 

One of Caran d'Ache's greatest successes in 
this line was an Epopee de Napoleon ^ — the great 
Emperor appearing on foot and on horseback, 
the long lines of his army passing before him in 
the foreground or small in the distance. They 
stormed heights, cheered on by his presence, 
or formed hollow squares to repulse the enemy. 
During their evolutions, the clear voice of the 
poet rang out from the darkness with thrilling 
effed. 

The nicest art is necessary to cut these little 
figures to the required perfedion. So great was 
the talent of their inventor that, when he gave 
burlesques of the topics of the day, or presented 
the celebrities of the hour to his public, each fig- 
ure would be recognized with a burst of delighted 
applause. The great Sarah was represented in 
poses of infinite humor, surrounded by her men- 
agerie or receiving the homage of the universe. 
Political leaders, foreign sovereigns, social and 
operatic stars, were made to pass before a laugh- 
ing public. None were spared. Paris went mad 
with delight at this new "art," and for months it 
was impossible to find a seat vacant in the hall. 

At the Boite a Musique, the idea was further 
developed. By an ingenious arrangement of 
lights, of which the secret has been carefully 
kept, landscapes are represented in color; all the 
gradations of light are given, from the varied 

[ >34] 



TOETIC CABARETS OF TARIS 

twilight hues to purple night, until the moon, 
rising, lights anew the pid:ure. During all these 
variations of color little groups continue to come 
and go, acting out the story of a poem, which the 
poet delivers from the surrounding obscurity as 
only an author can render his own lines. 

One of the pillars of this attractive centre was 
Jules Jouy, who made a large place for himself 
in the hearts of his contemporaries — a true poet, 
whom neither privations nor the difficult begin- 
nings of an unknown writer could turn from his 
vocation. His songs are alternately tender, gay, 
and bitingly sarcastic. Some of his better-known 
ballads were written for and marvellously inter- 
preted by Yvette Guilbert. The difficult critics, 
Sarcey and Jules Lemaitre, have sounded his 
praise again and again. 

A cabaret of another kind which enjoyed much 
celebrity, more on account of the personahty of 
the poet who founded it than from any origi- 
nality or pid:uresqueness in its intallation, was 
the " MirHton," opened by Aristide Bruant in the 
little rooms that had sheltered the original " Chat 
Noir." 

To give an account of the " Mirliton " is to tell 
the story of Bruant, the most popular ballad- 
writer in France to-day. This original and eccen- 
tric poet is as well-known to a Parisian as the 
boulevards or the Arc de Triomphe. His cos- 
tume of shabby black velvet, Brittany waistcoat, 
red shirt, top-boots, and enormous hat is a fa- 

[ 135] 



THE IV ^YS OF mE3^ 

miliar feature in the caricatures and prints of 
the day. His little cabaret remains closed dur- 
ing the day, opening its doors toward evening. 
The personality of the ballad-writer pervades the 
atmosphere. He walks about the tiny place hail- 
ing his acquaintances with some gay epigram, 
receiving strangers with easy familiarity or chill- 
ing disdain, as the humor takes him; then in a 
moment, with a rapid change of expression, pour- 
ing out the ringing lines of one of his ballads — 
always the story of the poor and humble, for 
he has identified himself with the outcast and 
the disinherited. His volumes Dans la Rue and 
Sur la Route have had an enormous popularity, 
their contents being known and sung all over 
France. 

In 1892 Bruant was received as a member of 
the society of Gens de Lettres. It may be of in- 
terest to recall a part of the speech made by Fran- 
cois Coppee on the occasion: "It is with the 
greatest pleasure that I present to my confreres my 
good friend, the ballad-writer, Aristide Bruant. 
I value highly the author o^ Dans la Rue. When 
I close his volume of sad and caustic verses it 
is with the consoling thought that even vice and 
crime have their conscience: that if there is suf- 
fering there is a possible redemption. He has 
sought his inspiration in the gutter, it is true, 
but he has seen there a reflection of the stars." 

In the Avenue Trudaine, not far from the 
other cabarets ^ the " Ane Rouge" was next opened, 

[ 136] 



TOETIC CABARETS OF TARIS 

in a quiet corner of the immense suburb, its 
shady Httle garden, on which the rooms open, 
making it a favorite meeting-place during the 
warm months. Of a summer evening no more 
congenial spot can be found in all Paris. The 
quaint chambers have been covered with mural 
paintings or charcoal caricatures of the poets 
themselves, or of familiar faces among the clients 
and patrons of the place. 

One of the many talents that clustered around 
this quiet little garden was the brilliant Paul 
Verlaine, the most Bohemian of all inhabitants 
of modern Prague, whose death has left a void, 
difficult to fill. Fame and honors came too late. 
He died in destitution, if not absolutely of hun- 
ger; to-day his admirers are eredling a bronze 
bust of him in the Garden of the Luxembourg, 
with money that would have gone far toward 
making his life happy. 

In the old hotel of the Lesdiguieres family, 
rue de la Tour d'Auvergne, the "Carillon" 
opened its doors in 1 893, and quickly conquered 
a place in the public favor, the inimitable fun and 
spirits of Tiercy drawing crowds to the place. 

The famous "Treteau de Tabarin," which to- 
day holds undisputed precedence over all the 
cabarets of Paris, was among the last to appear. 
It was founded by the brilliant Fursy and a group 
of his friends. Here no pains have been spared to 
form a setting worthy of the poets and their 
public. 

[ 137 ] 



THE W^rS OF mECN^ 

Many years ago, in the days of the good king 
Louis XIII., a strolling poet-a6tor, Tabarin, 
erefted his little canvas-covered stage before the 
statue of Henry IV., on the Pont-Neuf, and 
drew the court and the town by his fun and pa- 
thos. The founders of the latest and most com- 
plete of Parisian cabarets have reconstru6ted, as 
far as possible, this historic scene. On the wall of 
the room where the performances are given, is 
painted a view of old Paris, the Seine and its 
bridges, the towers of Notre Dame in the dis- 
tance, and the statue of Louis XIII. 's warlike 
father in the foreground. In front of this paint- 
ing stands a staging of rough planks, reproducing 
the little theatre of Tabarin. Here, every evening, 
the authors and poets play in their own pieces, 
recite their verses, and tell their stories. Not long 
ago a young musician, who has already given an 
opera to the world, sang an entire one-ad: operetta 
of his composition, changing his voice for the dif- 
ferent parts, imitating choruses by clever effeds 
on the piano. 

Montmartre is now sprinkled with attradive 
cabarets^ the taste of the public for such informal 
entertainments having grown each year; with rea- 
son, for the careless grace of the surroundings, 
the absence of any useless restraint or obligation 
as to hour or duration, has a charm for thousands 
whom a long concert or the inevitable five ads 
at the Fran^ais could not tempt. It would be dif- 
ficult to overrate the influence such an atmos- 

[ -38 ] 



TOETIC CABARETS OF TARIS 

phere, breathed in youth, must have on the taste 
and charad:er. The absence of a sordid spirit, the 
curse of our material day and generation, the con- 
tadtwith intelleds trained to incase their thoughts 
in serried verse or crisp and lucid prose, cannot 
but form the hearer's mind into a higher and bet- 
ter mould. It is both a satisfaction and a hope for 
the future to know that these influences are being 
felt all over the capital and throughout the length 
and breadth of France. There are at this moment 
in Paris alone three or four hundred poets, bal- 
lad writers, and raconteurs who recite their works 
in public. 

It must be hard for the untravelled Anglo- 
Saxon to grasp the idea that a poet can, without 
loss of prestige, recite his lines in a public cafe 
before a mixed audience. If such doubting souls 
could, however, be present at one of these no^es 
ambrosiana^ they would acknowledge that the 
Latin temperament can throw a grace and child- 
like abandon around an ad that would cause an 
Englishman or an American to appear supremely 
ridiculous. One's taste and sense of fitness are 
never shocked. It seems the most natural thing 
in the world to be sitting with your glass of beer 
before you, while some rising poet, whose name 
ten years later may figure among the "Immortal 
Forty," tells to you his loves and his ambition, or 
brings tears into your eyes with a description of 
some humble hero or martyr. 

From the days of Homer poetry has been the 

[ 139 ] 



THE W^rS OF mEU^ 

instrudtor of nations. In the Orient to-day the 
poet story-teller holds his audience spellbound 
for hours, teaching the people their history and 
supplying their minds with food for thought, 
raising them above the dull level of the brutes by 
the charm of his verse and the elevation of his 
ideas. The power of poetry is the same now as 
three thousand years ago. Modern skeptical 
Paris, that scoffs at all creeds and chafes impa- 
tiently under any rule, will sit to-day docile and 
complaisant, charmed by the melody of a poet's 
voice ; its passions lulled or quickened, like Alex- 
ander's of old, at the will of a modern Timotheus. 



[ 140 ] 



Etiquette at Home 

and Abroad 

READING that a sentinel had been pun- 
ished the other day at St. Petersburg for 
- having omitted to present arms, as her 
Imperial Highness, the Grand Duchess Olga, 
was leaving the winter palace — in her nurse's 
arms — I smiled at what appeared to be needless 
punctilio; then, as is my habit, began turning the 
subjed: over, and gradually came to the conclu- 
sion that while it would doubtless be well to sup- 
press much of the ceremonial encumbering court 
life, it might not be amiss if we engrafted a little 
more etiquette into our intercourse with strangers 
and the home relations. In our dear free and easy- 
going country there is a constant tendency to 
loosen the ties of fireside etiquette until any man- 
ners are thought good enough, as any toilet is 
considered sufficiently attradive for home use. 
A singular impression has grown up that formal 
politeness and the saying of gracious and compli- 
mentary things betray the toady and the hypo- 
crite, both of whom are abhorrent to Ameri- 
cans. 

By the force of circumstances most people are 
civil enough in general society; while many fail to 
keep to their high standard in the intimacy of 
home life and in their intercourse with inferiors, 

[ HI ] 



THE WjfrS OF 3IEJ^ 

which is a pity, as these are the two cases where 
self-restraint and amenity are most required. Po- 
liteness is, after all, but the didate of a kind heart, 
and supplies the oil necessary to make the social 
machinery run smoothly. In home life, which is 
the association during many hours each day of 
people of varying dispositions, views, and occu- 
pations, fricflion is inevitable; and there is especial 
need of lubrication to lessen the wear and tear 
and eliminate jarring. 

Americans are always much shocked to learn 
that we are not popular on the Continent. Such 
a discovery comes to either a nation or an indi- 
vidual like a douche of cold water on nice, warm 
conceit, and brings with it a feeling of discourage- 
ment, of being unjustly treated, that is painful, for 
we are very "touchy" in America, and cry out 
when a foreigner expresses anything but admira- 
tion for our ways, yet we are the last to lend our- 
selves to foreign customs. 

It has been a home thrust for many of us to 
find that our dear friends the French sympathized 
warmly with Spain in the recent struggle, and had 
httle but sneers for us. One of the reasons for 
this partiality is not hard to discover. 

The Spanish who travel are mostly members 
of an aristocracy celebrated for its grave courtesy, 
which has gone a long way toward making them 
popular on the Continent, while we have for years 
been riding rough-shod over the feelings and 
prejudices of the European peoples, under the 

[ 142 ] 



ETIQUETTE ^f 



pleasing but fallacious illusion that the money we 
spent so lavishly in foreign lands would atone for 
all our sins. The large majority of our travelling 
compatriots forget that an elaborate etiquette ex- 
ists abroad regulating the intercourse between 
one class and another, the result of centuries of 
civilization, and as the Medic and Persian laws 
for durability. In our ignorance we break many 
of these social laws and give offence where none 
was intended. 

A single illustration will explain my meaning. 
A young American girl once went to the mis- 
tress of a. pension where she was staying and com- 
plained that the concierge of the house had been 
impertinent. When the proprietress asked the 
concierge yj\i2it this meant, the latter burst out with 
her wrongs. " Since Miss B. has been in this house, 
she has never once bowed to me, or addressed a 
word to either my husband or myself that was not 
a question or an order; she walks in and out of my 
loge to look for letters or take her key as though 
my room were the street ; I won't stand such treat- 
ment from any one, much less from a girl. The 
duchess who lives au quatrieme never passes with- 
out a kind word or an inquiry after the children 
or my health." 

Now this American girl had erred through ig- 
norance of the fad that in France servants are 
treated as humble friends. The man who brings 
your matutinal coffee says "Good morning" on 
entering the room, and inquires if "Monsieur 

I H3 ] 



THE W^rS OF 3IEV^ 

has slept well," expeding to be treated with the 
same politeness he shows to you. 

The lady who sits at the caisse of the restau- 
rant you frequent is as sure of her position as her 
customers are of theirs, and exa6ls a courteous 
salutation from every one entering or leaving her 
presence ; logically, for no gentleman would enter 
a ladies' drawing-room without removing his hat. 
The fa6l that a woman is obliged to keep a shop 
in no way relieves him of this obligation. 

People on the Continent know their friends' 
servants by name, and speak to them on arriv- 
ing at a house, and thank them for an opened 
door or oifered coat; if a tip is given it is accom- 
panied by a gracious word. So rare is this form 
of civility in America and England (for Britons 
err as gravely in this matter as ourselves) that our 
servants are surprised and inclined to resent po- 
liteness, as in the case of an English butler who 
recently came to his master and said he should 
be "obliged to leave." On being questioned it 
came out that one of the guests was in the habit 
of chatting with him, "and," added the Briton, 
"I won't stand being took liberties with by no 
one." 

Some years ago I happened to be standing in 
the vestibule of the Hotel Bristol as the Princess 
of Wales and her daughters were leaving. Mr. 
Morlock, the proprietor, was at the foot of the 
stairs to take leave of those ladies, who shook 
hands with and thanked him for his attention 

[ H4 ] 



ETIQUETTE ^i 



during their stay, and for the flowers he had sent. 
Nothing could have been more gracious and freer 
from condescension than their manner, and it un- 
doubtedly produced the best impression. The 
waiter who served me at that time was also under 
their charm, and remarked several times that 
"there had never been ladies so easy to please or 
so considerate of the servants." 

My neighbor at dinner the other evening con- 
fided to me that she was "worn out being fitted." 
" I had such an unpleasant experience this morn- 
ing," she added. ^^ The jupiere could not get one 
of my skirts to hang properly. After a dozen at- 
tempts I told her to send for the forewoman, 
when, to my horror, the girl burst out crying, 
and said she should lose her place if I did. I was 
very sorry for her, but what else could I do?" 
It does not seem as if that lady could be very 
popular with inferiors, does it? 

That it needs a lighter hand and more tadl to 
deal with tradespeople than with equals is certain, 
and we are sure to be the losers when we fail. The 
last time I was in the East a friend took me into 
the bazaars to see a carpet he was anxious to buy. 
The price asked was out of all proportion to its 
value, but we were gravely invited by the mer- 
chant to be seated and coffee was served, that bar- 
gaining (which is the backbone of Oriental trade) 
might be carried on at leisure. My friend, nervous 
and impatient, like all our race, turned to me and 
said, "What 's all this tomfoolery? Tell him I '11 

[ HS] 



THE W^rS OF 3^E0^ 

give so much for his carpet; he can take it 
or leave it." When this was interpreted to the 
bearded tradesman, he smiled and came down a 
few dollars in his price, and ordered more coffee. 
By this time we were outside his shop, and left 
without the carpet simply because my friend 
could not conform to the customs of the country 
he was visiting. The sale of his carpet was a big af- 
fair for the Oriental; he intended to carry it through 
with all the ceremony the occasion required, and 
would sooner not make a sale than be hustled out 
of his stately routine. 

It is not only in intercourse with inferiors that 
tad; is required. The treatment of children and 
young people in a family calls for delicate han- 
dling. The habit of taking liberties with young 
relations is a common form of a relaxed social 
code and the besetting sin of elderly people, who, 
having little to interest them in their own lives, 
imagine that their mission is to reform the ways 
and manners of their family. Ensconced behind 
the resped which the young are supposed to 
pay them, they give free vent to inclination, 
and carp, cavil, and corred. The vidims may 
have reached maturity or even middle age, but 
remain always children to these social policemen, 
to be reproved and instruded in and out of sea- 
son. "I am doing this for your own good," is an 
excuse that apparently frees the veterans from the 
necessity of respedingthe prejudices and feelings 
of their pupils, and lends a gloss of unselfishness 

[ 146] 



ETIQUETTE ^c, 



to adions which are simply impertinent. Oddly 
enough, amateur "schoolmarms" who fall into 
this unpleasant habit are generally oversensitive, 
and resent as a personal affront any restless- 
ness under criticism on the part of their vidlims. 
It is easy, once the habit is acquired, to carry 
the suavity and consideration of general society 
into the home circle, yet how often is it done? I 
should like to see the principle that ordered pre- 
sentation of arms to the infant princess applied to 
our intimate relations, and the rights of the young 
and dependent scrupulously respefted. 

In the third ad: ofCas^e, when old Eccles steals 
the "coral" from his grandson's neck, he ex- 
cuses the theft by a grandiloquent soliloquy, and 
persuades himself that he is proteding "the weak 
and the humble" (pointing to himself) "against 
the powerful and the strong" (pointing to the 
baby). Alas, too many of us take liberties with 
those whom we do not fear, and excuse our little 
ads of cowardice with arguments as fallacious as 
those of drunken old Eccles. 



[ 147] 



N'lS 

What is "Art"? 



IN former years, we inquiring youngsters in 
foreign studios were much bewildered by 
the repetition of a certain phrase. Discussion 
of almost any picture or statue was (after other 
forms of criticism had been exhausted) pretty 
sure to conclude with, "It's all very well in its 
way, but it 's not Art." Not only foolish youths 
but the "masters" themselves constantly ad- 
vanced this opinion to crush a rival or belittle a 
friend. To ardent minds seeking for the light and 
catching at every thread that might serve as a 
guide out of perplexity, this vague assertion was 
confusing. According to one master, the eigh- 
teenth-century "school" did not exist. What had 
been produced at that time was pleasing enough 
to the eye, but "was not Art !" In the opinion 
of another, Italian music might amuse or cheer 
the ignorant, but could not be recognized by 
serious musicians. 

As most of us were living far from home and 
friends for the purpose of acquiring the rudi- 
ments of art, this continual sweeping away of our 
foundations was discouraging. What was the use, 
we sometimes asked ourselves, of toiling, if our 
work was to be cast contemptuously aside by the 
next "school" as a pleasing trifle, not for a mo- 
ment to be taken seriously ? How was one to 

[ 148 ] 



WHAT IS '^JtRT"? 



find out the truth ? Who was to decide when 
dodors disagreed ? Where was the rock on 
which an earnest student might lay his corner- 
stone without the misgiving that the next wave 
in public opinion would sap its base and cast him 
and his ideals out again at sea ? 

The eighteenth-century artists and the Italian 
composers had been sincere and convinced that 
they were producing works of art. In our own 
day the idol of one moment becomes the jest 
of the next. Was there, then, no fixed law ? 

The short period, for instance, between 1875 
and the present time has been long enough for 
the talent of one painter (Bastien- Lepage) to be 
discovered, discussed, lauded, acclaimed, then 
gradually forgotten and decried. During the 
years when we were studying in Paris, that young 
painter's works were pronounced by the critics 
and their following to be the last development 
of Art. Museums and amateurs vied with each 
other in acquiring his canvases. Yet, only this 
spring, while dining with two or three art critics 
in the French capital, I heard Lepage's name 
mentioned and his works recalled with the smile 
that is accorded to those who have hoodwinked 
the public and passed off spurious material as the 
real thing. 

If any one doubts the fleeting nature of a repu- 
tation, let him go to a sale of modern pictures 
and note the prices brought by the favorites of 
twenty years ago. The paintings of that arch- 

[ 149 ] 



THE W^rS OF 3IEJ<^ 

priest, Meissonier,no longer command the sums 
that eager colledtors paid for them a score of years 
back. When a great European critic dares assert, 
as one has recently, of the master's " 1 8 1 5," that 
"everything in the pidure appears metallic, ex- 
cept the cannon and the men's helmets," the 
mighty are indeed fallen ! It is much the same 
thing with the old masters. There have been 
fashions in them as in other forms of art. Fifty 
years ago Rembrandt's work brought but small 
prices, and until Henri Rochefort (during his ex- 
ile) began to write up the English school, Rom- 
neys, Lawrences, and Gainsboroughs had little 
market value. 

The result is that most of us are as far away 
from the solution of that vexed question " What 
is Art ? " at forty as we were when boys. The 
majority have arranged a compromise with their 
consciences. We have found out what we like 
(in itself no mean achievement), and beyond such 
personal preference, are shy of asserting (as we 
were fond of doing formerly) that such and such 
works are "Art," and such others, while pleas- 
ing and popular, lack the requisite qualities. 

To enquiring minds, sure that an answer to 
this question exists, but uncertain where to look 
for it, the fad: that one of the thinkers of the 
century has, in a recent "Evangel," given to the 
world a definition of "Art," the result of many 
years' meditation, will be received with joy. 
"Art," says Tolstoi, "is simply a condition of 

[ 150] 



WHAT IS ''^Rr"f 



life. It is any form of expression that a human 
being employs to communicate an emotion he 
has experienced to a fellow-mortal." 

An author who, in telling his hopes and sor- 
rows, amuses or saddens a reader, has in just so 
much produced a work of art. A lover who, by 
the sincerity of his accent, communicates the 
flame that is consuming him to the objed: of 
his adoration; the shopkeeper who inspires a 
purchaser with his own admiration for an objed: 
on sale; the baby that makes its joy known to a 
parent — artists! artists! Brown, Jones, or Rob- 
inson, the moment he has consciously produced 
on a neighbor's ear or eye the sensation that a 
sound or a combination of colors has eifeded 
on his own organs, is an artist! 

Of course much of this has been recognized 
through all time. The formula in which Tolstoi 
has presented his meditations to the world is, 
however, so fresh that it comes like a revelation, 
with the additional merit of being understood, 
with little or no mental effort, by either the cas- 
ual reader, who, with half-attention attraded by 
a headline, says to himself, "* What is art?' That 
looks interesting!" and skims lightly down the 
lines, or the thinker who, after perusing Tolstoi's 
lucid words, lays down the volume with a sigh, 
and murmurs in his humiliation, "Why have I 
been all these years seeking in theclouds for what 
was lying ready at my hand?" 

The wide-reaching definition of the Russian 

[ 15' ] 



THE TV^rS OF mEO^ 

writer has the efFed: of a vigorous blow from a 
pickaxe at the foundations of a shaky and too 
elaborate edifice. The wordy superstructure of 
aphorisms and paradox falls to the ground, dis- 
closing fair "Truth," so long a captive within 
the temple ereded in her honor. As, however, 
the newly freed goddess smiles on the ignorant 
and the pedants alike, the result is that with one 
accord the aesthetes raise a howl! "And the 
* beautiful,'" they say, "the beautiful? Can there 
be any * Art ' without the ' Beautiful ' .? What ! the 
little greengrocer at the corner is an artist be- 
cause, forsooth, he has arranged some lettuce and 
tomatoes into a tempting pile! Anathema! Art 
is a secret known only to the initiated few; the 
vulgar can neither understand nor appreciate it! 
We are the eled:! Our mission is to explain what 
Art is and point out her beauty to a coarse and 
heedless world. Only those with a sense of the 
'beautiful' should be allowed to enter into her 
sacred presence." 

Here the expounders of "Art" plunge into 
a sea of words, offering a dozen definitions each 
more obscure than its predecessor, all of which 
have served in turn as watchwords of different 
"schools." Tolstoi's sweeping truth is too far- 
reaching to please these gentry. Like the priests 
of past religions, they would have preferred to 
keep such knowledge as they had to themselves 
and expound it, little at a time, to the ignorant. 
The great Russian has kicked away their altar 

[ 152] 



WHAT IS ''^RT"f 



and routed the false gods, whose acolytes will 
never forgive him. 

Those of my readers who have been intimate 
with painters, adlors, or musicians, will recall with 
amusement how lightly the performances of an 
associate are condemned by the brotherhood as 
falling short of the high standard which accord- 
ing to these wiseacres, "Art" exads, and how 
sure each speaker is of understanding just where 
a brother carries his " mote." 

Voltaire once avoided giving a definition of the 
beautiful by saying, "Ask a toad what his ideas 
of beauty are. He will indicate the particular 
female toad he happens to admire and praise her 
goggle-eyes and yellow belly as the perfedlion of 
beauty!" A negro from Guiana will make much 
the same unsatisfactory answer, so the old philoso- 
pher recommends us not to be didad:ic on sub- 
jects where judgments are relative, and at the 
same time without appeal. 

Tolstoi denies that an idea as subtle as a defi- 
nition of Art can be classified by pedants, and 
proceeds to formulate the following delightful 
axiom: "A principle upon which no two people 
can agree does not exist." A truth is proved by 
its evidence to all. Discussion outside of that is 
simply beating the air. Each succeeding " school " 
has sounded its death-knell by asserting that cer- 
tain combinations alone produced beauty — the 
weakness of to-day being an inclination to see art 
only in the obscure and the recondite. As a result 

[ "53 ] 



THE W^rS OF mED^ 

we drift each hour further from the truth. Mod- 
ern intelle(5tuality has formed itself into a scorn- 
ful aristocracy whose members, esteeming them- 
selves the elite, withdraw from the vulgar public, 
and live in a world of their own, looking (like 
the Lady of Shalott) into a mirror at distorted 
images of nature and declaring that what they see 
is art! 

In literature that which is difficult to under- 
stand is much admired by the simple-minded, who 
also decry pidures that tell their own story ! A 
certain class of minds enjoy being mystified, and 
in consequence writers, painters, and musicians 
have appeared who are willing to juggle for their 
amusement. The simple definition given to us by 
the Russian writer comes like a breath of whole- 
some air to those suflFocating in an atmosphere of 
perfumes and artificial heat. Art is our common 
inheritance, not the property of a favored few. 
The wide world we love is full of it, and each of 
us in his humble way is an artist when with a 
full heart he communicates his delight and his 
joy to another. Tolstoi has given us back our 
birthright, so long withheld, and crowned with 
his aged hands the true artist. 



C '54] 



N'- 19 

The Genealogical Craze 

THERE undoubtedly is something in 
the American temperament that pre- 
vents our doing anything in moderation. 
If we take up an idea, it is immediately run to 
exaggeration and then abandoned, that the nation 
may fly at a tangent after some new fad. Does this 
come from our climate, or (as I am inclined to 
think) from the curiously unclassified state of 
society in our country, where so few established 
standards exist and so few are sure of their own 
or their neighbors' standing? In consequence, 
if Mrs. Brown starts anything, Mrs. Jones, for 
fear of being left behind, immediately "goes her 
one better," to be in turn "raised" by Mrs. 
Robinson. 

In other lands a reasonable pride of birth has 
always been one of the bonds holding communi- 
ties together, and is estimated at its just value. 
We, after having pradically ignored the subject 
for half a century, suddenly rush to the other 
extreme, and develop an entire forest of genea- 
logical trees at a growth. 

Chagrined, probably, at the small amount 
of consideration that their superior birth com- 
manded, a number of aristocratically minded 
matrons united a few years ago as " Daughters of 
the Revolution," restridlirig membership to wo- 

[ 155 ] 



THE TVt^rS OF mEVi^ 

men descended from officers of Washington's 
army. There may have been a reason for the 
formation of this society. I say "may" because it 
does not seem quite clear what its aim was. The 
originators doubtless imagined they were found- 
ing an exclusive circle, but the numbers who 
clamored for admittance quickly dispelled this 
illusion. So a small group of the eled: withdrew in 
disgust and banded together under the cogno- 
men of "Colonial Dames." 

The only result of these two movements was 
to awaken envy, hatred, and malice in the hearts 
of those excluded from the mysterious rites, 
which to outsiders seemed to consist in black- 
balling as many aspirants as possible. Some vic- 
tims of this bad treatment, thirsting for revenge, 
struck on the happy thought of inaugurating an 
"Aztec" society. As that title conveyed abso- 
lutely no idea to any one, its members were forced 
to explain that only descendants of officers who 
fought in the Mexican War were eligible. What 
the eledl did when they got into the circle was 
not specified. 

The " Social Order of Foreign Wars" was the 
next creation, its authors evidently considering 
the Mexican campaign as a domestic article, a 
sort of family squabble. Then the " Children of 
1812" attracted attention, both groups having 
immediate success. Indeed, the vogue of these 
enterprises has been in inverse ratio to their use- 
fulness or raison d'etre^ people apparently being 

[ 156] 



THE qENEALOGICAL CRAZE 

ready to join anything rather than get left out in 
the cold. 

Jealous probably of seeing women enjoying all 
the fun, their husbands and brothers next banded 
together as "Sons of the Revolution." The wives 
retaliated by instituting the " Granddaughters of 
the Revolution" and "The Mayflower Order," 
the "price of admission" to the latter being de- 
scent from some one who crossed in that cele- 
brated ship — whether as one of the crew or as 
passenger is not clear. 

It was not, however, in the American temper- 
ament to rest content with modest beginnings, 
the national motto being, "The best is good 
enough for me." So wind was quickly taken 
out of the Mayflower's sails by "The Royal 
Order of the Crown," to which none need apply 
who were not prepared to prove descent from 
one or more royal ancestors. It was not stated in 
the prospectus whether Irish sovereigns and Fiji 
Island kings counted, but I have been told that 
bar sinisters form a class apart, and are deprived 
of the right to vote or hold office. 

Descent from any old king was, however, not 
sufficient for the high-toned people of our re- 
public. When you come to think of it, such a 
circle might be "mixed." One really must draw 
the line somewhere (as the Boston parvenu re- 
plied when asked why he had not invited his 
brother to a ball). So the founders of the "Circle 
of Holland Dames of the New Netherlands" 

[ -57] 



THE W^YS OF 3IEC^ 

drew the line at descent from a sovereign of the 
Low Countries. It does not seem as if this could 
be a large society, although those old Dutch pa- 
shas had an unconscionable number of children. 

The promoters of this enterprise seem never- 
theless to have been fairly successful, for they 
gave a fete recently, and crowned a queen. To 
be acclaimed their sovereign by a group of people 
all of royal birth is indeed an honor. Rumors of 
this ceremony have come to us outsiders. It is 
said that they employed only lineal descendants of 
Vatel to prepare their banquet, and I am assured 
that an offspring of Gambrinus ailed as butler. 

But it is wrong to joke on this subjedt. The 
state of affairs is becoming too serious. When sane 
human beings form a " Baronial Order of Runny- 
mede," and announce in their prospectus that only 
descendants through the male line from one (or 
more) of the forty noblemen who forced King 
John to sign the Magna Charta are what our 
Washington Mrs. Malaprop would call "legi- 
ble," the ad:ion attests a diseased condition of 
the community. Any one taking the trouble to 
remember that eight of the original barons died 
childless, and that the Wars of the Roses swept 
away nine tenths of what families the others may 
have had, that only one man in England (Lord 
de Ros) can at the present day prove male de- 
scent further back than the eleventh century, 
must appreciate the absurdity of our compatriots' 
pretensions. Burke's Peerage is acknowledged 

[ 158 ] 



THE QENEALOGICAL CRAZE 

to be the most "faked" volume in the English 
language, but the descents it attributes are like 
mathematical demonstrations compared to the 
"trees" that members of these new American 
orders climb. 

When my class was graduated from Mr. 
McMullen's school, we little boys had the 
brilliant idea of uniting in a society, but were 
greatly put about for an effedive name, hitting 
finally upon that of Ancient Seniors' Society. 
For a group of infants, this must be acknowl- 
edged to have been a luminous inspiration. We 
had no valid reason for forming that society, not 
being particularly fond of each other. Living in 
several cities, we rarely met after leaving school, 
and had little to say to each other when we did. 
But it sounded so fine to be an "Ancient Senior," 
and we hoped in our next school to impress new 
companions with that title and make them feel 
proper resped; for us in consequence. Pride, how- 
ever, sustained a fall when it was pointed out 
that the initials formed the ominous word" Ass." 

I have a shrewd suspicion that the motives 
which prompted our youthful adions are not 
very different from those now inciting children 
of a larger growth to band together, blackball 
their friends, crown queens, and perform other 
senseless mummeries, such as having the weath- 
ercock of a departed meeting-house brought in 
during a banquet, and dressing restaurant waiters 
in knickerbockers for "one night only." 

[ >59] 



THE fF^rS OF mEO^ 

This malarial condition of our social atmos- 
phere accounts for the quantity of genealogical 
quacks that have taken to sending typewritten 
letters, stating that the interest they take in your 
private affairs compels them to offer proof of 
your descent from any crowned head to whom 
you may have taken a fancy. One correspondent 
assured me only this month that he had papers 
in his possession showing beyond a doubt that 
I might claim a certain King McDougal of Scot- 
land for an ancestor. I have misgivings, however, 
as to the quality of the royal blood in my veins, 
for the same correspondent was equally confident 
six months ago that my people came in dired 
line from Charlemagne. As I have no desire to 
"corner" the market in kings, these letters have 
remained unanswered. 

Considering the mania to trace descent from 
illustrious men, it astonishes me that a Mystic 
Band, consisting of lineal descendants from the 
Seven Sages of Greece, has not before now burst 
upon an astonished world. It has been suggested 
that if some one wanted to organize a truly re- 
strided circle, "The Grandchildren of our Trip- 
oli War " would be an excellent title. So few Amer- 
icans took part in that confli6t — and still fewer 
know anything about it — that the satisfad:ion 
of joining the society would be immense to ex- 
clusively-minded people. 

There is only one explanation that seems in 
any way to account for this vast tomfoolery. A 

[ '60] 



THE QEN EALOGICAL CRAZE 

little sentence, printed at the bottom of a pros- 
pedlus recently sent to me, lets the ambitious cat 
out of the genealogical bag. It states that "social 
position is assured to people joining our order." 
Thanks to the idiotic habit some newspapers 
have inaugurated of advertising, gratis, a number 
of self-eleded society "leaders," many feeble- 
minded people, with more ambition than cash, 
and a larger supply of family papers than brains, 
have been bitten with a social madness, and enter 
these traps, thinking they are the road to position 
and honors. The number of fools is larger than 
one would have believed possible, if the success 
of so many " orders," " circles," " commanderies," 
and "regencies" were not there to testify to the 
unending folly of the would-be "smart." 

This last decade of the century has brought 
to light many strange fads and senseless manias. 
The "descent" craze, however, surpasses them 
all in inanity. The keepers of insane asylums will 
tell you that one of the hopeless forms of mad- 
ness is la folie des grandeurs. A breath of this de- 
lirium seems to be blowing over our country. 
Crowns and sceptres haunt the dreams of simple 
republican men and women, troubling their slum- 
bers and leading them a will-o'-the-wisp dance 
back across the centuries. 



[ i6i ] 



iV"- 20 

As the Twig is Bent 

I KNEW, in my youth, a French village far 
up among the Cevennes Mountains, where 
the one cultivated man of the place, sad- 
dened by the unlovely lives of the peasants 
around him and by the bare walls of the village 
school, organized evening classes for the boys. 
During these informal hours, he talked to them 
of literature and art and showed them his prints 
and paintings. When the youths' interest was 
aroused he lent them books, that they might read 
about the statues and buildings that had attradled 
their attention. At first it appeared a hopeless 
task to arouse any interest among these peasants 
in subjedis not bearing on their abjed: lives. To 
talk with boys of the ideal, when their poor bodies 
were in need of food and raiment, seemed super- 
fluous; but in time the charm worked, as it al- 
ways will. The beautiful appealed to their simple 
natures, elevating and refining them, and open- 
ing before their eager eyes perspedlives of un- 
dreamed-of interest. The self-imposed task be- 
came a delight as his pupils' minds responded to 
his efforts. Although death soon ended his use- 
ful life, the seed planted grew and bore fruit in 
many humble homes. 

At this moment I know men in several walks 
of life who revere with touching devotion the 

[ 16^] 



^S THE rwiq IS 'BENT 

memory of the one human being who had brought 
to them, at the moment when they were most im- 
pressionable, the gracious message that existence 
was not merely a struggle for bread. The boys he 
had gathered around him realize now that the en- 
couragement and incentive received from those 
evening glimpses of noble works existing in the 
world was the mainspring of their subsequent 
development and a source of infinite pleasure 
through all succeeding years. 

This reference to an individual effort toward 
cultivating the poor has been made because other 
delicate spirits are attempting some such task in 
our city, where quite as much as in the French 
village schoolchildren stand in need of some mes- 
sage of beauty in addition to the instrud:ionthey 
receive, — some window opened for them, as it 
were, upon the fields of art, that their eyes when 
raised from study or play may rest on objefts 
more inspiring than blank walls and the grace- 
less surroundings of street or schoolroom. 

We are far too quick in assuming that love of 
the beautiful is confined to the highly educated; 
that the poor have no desire to surround them- 
selves with graceful forms and harmonious colors. 
We wonder at and deplore their crude standards, 
bewailing the general lack of taste and the gradual 
reducing of everything to a commonplace money 
basis. We smile at the efforts toward adornment 
attempted by the poor, taking it too readily for 
granted that on this point they are beyond re- 

[ 163 ] 



THE TV^rS OF 34EUi^ 

demption. This error is the less excusable as so 
little has been done by way of experiment be- 
fore forming an opinion, — whole classes being 
put down as inferior beings, incapable of appre- 
ciation, before they have been allowed even a 
glimpse of the works of art that form the daily 
mental food of their judges. 

The portly charlady who rules despotically in 
my chambers is an example. It has been a curious 
study to watch her growing interest in the obje6ls 
that have here for the first time come under her 
notice; the delight she has come to take in dust- 
ing and arranging my belongings, and her enthu- 
siasm at any new acquisition. Knowing how bare 
her own home was, I felt at first only astonish- 
ment at her vivid interest in what seemed beyond 
her comprehension, but now realize that in some 
blind way she appreciates the rare and the delicate 
quite as much as my more cultivated visitors. At 
the end of one laborious morning, when every- 
thing was arranged to her satisfadion, she turned 
to me her poor, plain face, lighted up with an ex- 
pression of delight, and exclaimed, " Oh, sir, I do 
love to work in these rooms ! I 'm never so happy 
as when I 'm arranging them elegant things ! " 
And, although my pleasure in her pleasure was 
modified by the discovery that she had taken 
an eighteenth-century comb to disentangle the 
fringes of a rug, and broken several of its teeth 
in her ardor, that she invariably placed a certain 
Whister etching upside down, and then stood in 

[ 164] 



^S THE rwiq IS "BENT 

rapt admiration before it, still, in watching her 
enthusiasm, I felt a thrill of satisfadlion at seeing 
how her untaught taste responded to a contad 
with good things. 

Here in America, and especially in our city, 
which we have been at such pains to make as 
hideous as possible, the schoolrooms, where hun- 
dreds of thousands of children pass many hours 
daily, are one degree more graceless than the 
town itself; the most artistically inclined child can 
hardly receive any but unfortunate impressions. 
The other day a friend took me severely to task 
for rating our American women on their love of 
the big shops, and gave me, I confess, an entirely 
new idea on the subjed;. "Can't you see," she 
said, "that the shops here are what the museums 
abroad are to the poor? It is in them only that 
certain people may catch glimpses of the dainty 
and exquisite manufa6lures of other countries. 
The little education their eyes receive is obtained 
during visits to these emporiums." 

If this is so, and it seems probable, it only 
proves how the humble long for something more 
graceful than their meagre homes afford. 

In the hope of training the younger genera- 
tions to better standards and less vulgar ideals, a 
group of ladies are making an attempt to surround 
our schoolchildren during their impressionable 
youth with reprodudions of historic masterpieces, 
and have already decorated many schoolrooms in 
this way. For a modest sum it is possible to tint 

[ 165] 



THE W^rS OF mED^ 

the bare walls an attradlive color — a delight in 
itself — and adorn them with plaster casts of sta- 
tues and solar prints of pictures and buildings. 
The transformation that fifty or sixty dollars judi- 
ciously expended in this way produces in a school- 
room is beyond belief, and, as the advertisements 
say, "must be seen to be appreciated," giving an 
air of cheerfulness and refinement to the dreariest 
apartment. 

It is hard to make people understand the en- 
thusiasm these decorations have excited in both 
teachers and pupils. The directress of one of our 
large schools was telling me of the help and pleas- 
ure the prints and casts had been to her; she had 
given them as subjects for the class composi- 
tions, and used them in a hundred different ways 
as objeft-lessons. As the children are graduated 
from room to room, a great variety of high-class 
subjects can be brought to their notice by vary- 
ing the decorations. 

It is by the eye principally that taste is edu- 
cated. We speak with admiration of the "eighth 
sense "common among Parisians, and envy them 
their magic power of combining simple materials 
into an artistic whole. The reason is that for 
generations the eyes of those people have been 
unconsciously educated by the harmonious lines 
of well-proportioned buildings, finely finished 
detail of stately colonnade, and shady perspective 
of quay and boulevard. After years of this subtle 
training the eye instinctively revolts from the vul- 
[ -66 ] 



^S THE rwiq IS "BENT 

gar and the crude. There is Httle in the poorer 
quarters of our city to rejoice or refine the senses; 
squalor and all-pervading ugliness are not least 
among the curses that poverty entails. 

If you have a subjed: of interest in your mind, 
it often happens that every book you open, every 
person you speak with, refers to that topic. I never 
remember having seen an explanation offered of 
this phenomenon. 

The other morning, while this article was ly- 
ing half finished on my desk, I opened the last 
number of a Paris paper and began reading an ac- 
count of the drama, Les Mauvais Bergers (treat- 
ing of that perilous subje6l, the " strikes "), which 
Sarah Bernhardt had just had the courage to pro- 
duce before the Paris public. In the third a6l, 
when the owner of the fadory receives the disaf- 
fedted hands, and listens to their complaints, the 
leader of the strike (an intelligent young work- 
man), besides shorter hours and increased pay, 
demands that recreation rooms be built where the 
toilers, their wives, and their children may pass 
unoccupied hours in the enjoyment of attractive 
surroundings, and cries in conclusion: "We, the 
poor, need some poetry and some art in our lives, 
for, indigent as he may be, man does not live by 
bread alone. He has a right, like the rich, to things 
of beauty ! " 

In commending the use of decoration as a 
means of bringing pleasure into dull, cramped 
lives, one is too often met by the curious argu- 
[ -67] 



THE TV^rS OF a4E:H^ 

ment that taste is innate. "Either people have 
it or they have n't," like a long nose or a short 
one, and it is useless to waste good money in 
trying to improve either. "It would be much 
more to the point to spend your money in giving 
the poor children a good roast-beef dinner at 
Christmas than in placing the bust of Clytie be- 
fore them." That argument has crushed more at- 
tempts to elevate the poor than any other ever 
advanced. If it were listened to, there would 
never be any progress made, because there are 
always thousands of people who are hungry. 

When we refled; how painfully ill-arranged 
rooms or ugly colors affeft our senses, and re- 
member that less fortunate neighbors suffer as 
much as we do from hideous environments, it 
seems like keeping sunlight from a plant, or fresh 
air out of a sick-room, to refuse glimpses of the 
beautiful to the poor when it is in our power to 
give them this satisfaction with a slight effort. 
Nothing can be more encouraging to those who 
occasionally despair of human nature than the 
good results already obtained by this small at- 
tempt in the schools. 

We fall into the error of imagining that be- 
cause the Apollo Belvedere and the Square of St. 
Mark's have become stale to us by reproduction 
they are necessarily so to others. The great and 
the wealthy of the world form no idea of the long- 
ing the poor feel for a little variety in their lives. 
They do not know what they want. They have 
[ i68 ] 



^S THE TTViq IS 'BENT 

no standards to guide them, but the desire is 
there. Let us offer ourselves the satisfadion, as 
we start off for pleasure trips abroad or to the 
mountains, of knowing that at home the routine 
of study is lightened for thousands of children 
by the counterfeit presentment of the scenes we 
are enjoying; that, as we float up the Golden 
Horn or sit in the moonlight by the Parthe- 
non, far away at home some child is dreaming of 
those fair scenes as she raises her eyes from her 
task, and is unconsciously imbibing a love of the 
beautiful, which will add a charm to her humble 
life, and make the present labors lighter. If the 
child never lives to see the originals, she will be 
happier for knowing that somewhere in the 
world domed mosques mirror themselves in still 
waters, and marble gods, the handiwork of long- 
dead nations, stand in the golden sunlight and 
silently preach the gospel of the beautiful. 



[ 169 ] 



N"- 21 

Seven Small Duchesses 



SINCE those "precious" days when the 
habitues of the Hotel Rambouillet first 
raised social intercourse to the level of a 
fine art, the morals and manners, the amuse- 
ments and intrigues of great French ladies have 
interested the world and influenced the ways of 
civilized nations. Thanks to Memoirs and Max- 
ims, we are able to reconstruct the life of a sev- 
enteenth or eighteenth century noblewoman as 
completely as German archaeologists have re- 
built the temple of the Wingless Vidiory on the 
Acropolis from surrounding debris. 

Interest in French society has, however, 
diminished during this century, ceasing almost 
entirely with the Second Empire, when foreign 
women gave the tone to a parvenu court from 
which the older aristocracy held aloof in disgust 
behind the closed gates of their " hotels " and his- 
toric chateaux. 

With the exception of Balzac, few writers have 
drawn authentic pictures of nineteenth-century 
noblewomen in France; and his vivid portrayals 
are more the creations of genius than corred: de- 
scriptions of a caste. 

During the last fifty years French aristocrats 
have ceased to be factors even in matters social, 
the sceptre they once held having passed into 

[ 170 ] 



SEFEO^ SMALL T>UCHESSES 

alien hands, the daughters of Albion to a great 
extent replacing their French rivals in influenc- 
ing the ways of the "world," — a change, be it 
remarked in passing, that has not improved the 
tone of society or contributed to the spread of 
good manners. 

People like the French nobles, engaged in sulk- 
ing and attempting to overthrow or boycott each 
succeeding regime, must naturally lose their in- 
fluence. They have held aloof so long — fearing 
to compromise themselves by any advances to 
the powers that be, and restrained by countless 
traditions from taking an adive part in either the 
social or political strife — that little by little they 
have been passed by and ignored; which is a pity, 
for amid the ruin of many hopes and ambitions 
they have remained true to their caste and handed 
down from generation to generation the secret 
of that gracious urbanity and tad: which distin- 
guished the Gallic noblewoman in the last cen- 
tury from the rest of her kind and made her so 
deft in the difficult art of pleasing — and being 
pleased. 

Within the last few years there have, however, 
been signs of a change. Young members of his- 
toric houses show an amusing inclination to es- 
cape from their austere surroundings and resume 
the place their grandparents abdicated. If it is 
impossible to rule as formerly, they at any rate 
intend to get some fun out of existence. 

This joyous movement to the front is being 

[ >7i ] 



THE TF^rS OF 3i E J^ 

made by the young matrons enlisted under the 
" Seven little duchesses' " banner. Oddly enough, 
a baker's half-dozen of ducal coronets are worn 
at this moment, in France, by small and sprightly 
women, who have shaken the dust of centuries 
from those ornaments and sport them with a de- 
cidedly modern air! 

It is the members of this clique who, in Paris 
during the spring, at their chateaux in the sum- 
mer and autumn, and on the Riviera after Christ- 
mas, lead the amusements and strike the key for 
the modern French world. 

No one of these light-hearted ladies takes any 
particular precedence over the others. All are 
young, and some are wonderfully nice to look 
at. The Duchesse d'Uzes is, perhaps, the hand- 
somest, good looks being an inheritance from her 
mother, the beautiful and wayward Duchesse de 
Chaulme. 

There is a vivid grace about the daughter, an 
intense vitality that suggests some beautiful be- 
ing of the forest. As she moves and speaks one 
almost expe6ts to hear the quick breath coming 
and going through her quivering nostrils, and 
see foam on her full lips. Her mother's tragic 
death has thrown a glamor of romance around 
the daughter's life that heightens the witchery 
of her beauty. 

Next in good looks comes an American, the 
Duchesse de la Rochefoucauld, although mar- 
riage (which, as de Maupassant remarked, is rarely 

[ 172 ] 



SEFED^ SMALL DUCHESSES 

becoming) has not been propitious to that gentle 
lady. By rights she should have been mentioned 
first, as her husband outranks, not only all the 
men of his age, but also his cousin, the old Due 
de la Rochefoucauld-Doudeauville, to whom, 
however, a sort of brevet rank is accorded on 
account of his years, his wealth, and the high rank 
of his two wives. It might almost be asserted that 
our fair compatriot wears the oldest coronet in 
France. She certainly is mistress of three of the 
finest chateaux in that country, among which is 
Miromail, where the family live, and Liancourt, 
a superb Renaissance structure, a delight to the 
artist's soul. 

The young Duchesse de Brissac runs her two 
comrades close as regards looks. Brissac is the 
son of Mme. de Tredern, whom Newporters 
will remember two years ago, when she enjoyed 
some weeks of our summer season. Their chateau 
was built by the Brissac of Henri IV. 's time and 
is one of the few that escaped uninjured through 
the Revolution, its vast stone corridors and mas- 
sive oak ceilings, its moat and battlements, stand- 
ing to-day unimpaired amid a group of chateaux 
including Chaumont, Rochecotte, Azay-le-Ri- 
deau, Usse, Chenonceau, within "dining" dis- 
tance of each other, that form a centre of gayety 
next in importance to Paris and Cannes. In the 
autumn these spacious castles are filled with joy- 
ous bands and their ample stables with horses. 
A couple of years ago, when the king of Portu- 

[ 173 ] 



THE W^rS OF 3^ECN^ 

gal and his suite were entertained at Chaumont 
for a week of stag-hunting, over three hundred 
people, servants, and guests, slept under its roof, 
and two hundred horses were housed in its 
stables. 

The Due de Luynes and his wife, who was 
Mile, de Crussol (daughter of the brilliant Du- 
chesse d'Uzes of Boulanger fame), live at Dam- 
pierre, another interesting pile filled with rare 
pictures, bric-a-brac, and statuary, first among 
which is Jean Goujon's life-sized statue (in sil- 
ver) of Louis XIII., presented by that monarch 
to his favorite, the founder of the house. This 
gem of the Renaissance stands in an oftagonal 
chamber hung in dark velvet, unique among 
statues. It has been shown but once in public, 
at the Loan Exhibition in 187a, when the patri- 
otic nobility lent their treasures to colled a fund 
for the Alsace-Lorraine exiles. 

The Duchesse de Noailles, nee Mile, de 
Luynes, is another of this coterie and one of 
the few French noblewomen who has travelled. 
Many Americans will remember the visit she 
made here with her mother some years ago, and 
the effedl her girlish grace produced at that time. 
The de Noailles' chateau of Maintenon is an 
inheritance from Louis XIV.'s prudish favorite, 
who founded and enriched the de Noailles fam- 
ily. The Due and Duchesse d'Uzes live near 
by at Bonnelle with the old Due de Doudeau- 
ville, her grandfather, who is also the grand- 

[ -74 ] 



seve:}{^ small t>uchesses 

father of Mme. de Noailles, these two ladies 
being descended each from a wife of the old 
duke, the former from the Princesse de Polignac 
and the latter from the Princesse de Ligne. 

The Duchesse de Bisaccia, nee Princesse Rad- 
ziwill, and the Duchesse d'Harcourt, who com- 
plete the circle of seven, also live in this vicinity, 
where another group of historic residences, in- 
cluding Eclimont and Rambouillet, the summer 
home of the president, rivals in gayety and hos- 
pitality the chateaux of the Loire. 

No coterie in England or in this country cor- 
responds at all to this French community. Much 
as they love to amuse themselves, the idea of 
meeting any but their own set has never passed 
through their well-dressed heads. They differ 
from their parents in that they have broken away 
from many antiquated habits. Their houses are 
no longer lay hermitages, and their opera boxes 
are regularly filled, but no foreigner is ever re- 
ceived, no ambitious parvenu accepted among 
them. Ostracism heremeansnot a ten years' exile, 
but lifelong banishment. 

The contrast is strong between this rigor and 
the enthusiasm with which wealthy new-comers 
are welcomed into London society or by our 
own upper crust, so full of unpalatable pieces of 
dough. This exclusiveness of the titled French 
reminds me — incongruously enough — of a cer- 
tain arrangement of graves in a Lenox cemetery, 
where the members of an old New England family 

[ 175] 



THE ^^rs OF mEO^ 

lie buried in a circle with their feet toward its cen- 
tre. When I asked, many years ago, the reason for 
this arrangement, a wit of that day — a daughter, 
by the bye, of Mrs. Stowe — replied, "So that 
when they rise at the Last Day only members of 
their own family may face them!" 

One is struck by another peculiarity of these 
French men and women — their astonishing pro- 
ficiency in les arts d'agrement. Every Frenchwo- 
man of any pretensions to fashion backs her 
beauty and grace with some art in which she is 
sure to be proficient. The dowager Duchesse 
d'Uzes is a sculptor of mark, and when during 
the autumn Mme. de Tredern gives opera at 
Brissac, she finds little difficulty in recruiting her 
troupe from among the youths and maidens under 
her roof whose musical education has been thor- 
ough enough to enable them to sing difficult 
music in public. 

Love of the fine arts is felt in their conversa- 
tion, in the arrangement and decoration of their 
homes, and in the interest that an exhibition of 
pictures or old furniture will excite. Few of these 
people but are habitues of the Hotel Drouot and 
conversant with the value and authenticity of the 
works of art daily sold there. Such elements com- 
bine to form an atmosphere that does not exist in 
any other country, and lends an interest to soci- 
ety in France which it is far from possessing else- 
where. 

There is but one way that an outsider can 

[ 176] 



SEVED^ SMALL 'DUCHESSES 

enter this Gallic paradise. By marrying into it! 
Two of the seven ladies in question lack the 
quarterings of the rest. Miss Mitchell was only 
a charming American girl, and the mother of 
the Princesse Radziwill was Mile. Blanc of Monte 
Carlo. However, as in most religions there are 
ceremonies that purify, so in this case the sacra- 
ment of marriage is supposed to have recon- 
structed these wives and made them genealogi- 
cally whole. 

There is something incongruous to most peo- 
ple in the idea of a young girl hardly out of the 
schoolroom bearing a ponderous title. The pomp 
and circumstance that surround historic names 
conned: them (through our reading) with stately 
matrons playing the " heavy female " roles in life's 
drama, much as Lady Macbeth's name evokes 
the idea of a raw-boned mother-in-law sort of 
person, the reverse of attractive, and quite the 
last woman in the world to egg her husband on 
to a crime — unless it were wife murder! 

Names like de Chevreuse, or de la Roche- 
foucauld, seem appropriate only to the warlike 
amazons of the Fronde, or corpulent kill-joys in 
powder and court trains of the Mme. Etiquette 
school; it comes as a shock, on being presented 
to a group of girlish figures in the latest cut of 
golfing skirts, who are chattering odds on the 
Grand Prix in faultless English, to realize that 
these light-hearted gamines are the present own- 
ers of sonorous titles. One shudders to think 

[ 177 ] 



THE w^rs OF 31e:h^ 

what would have been the effed on poor Marie 
Antoinette's priggish mentor could she have fore- 
seen her granddaughter, clad in knickerbockers, 
running a petroleum tricycle in the streets of 
Paris, or pedalling "tandem" across country be- 
hind some young cavalry officer of her connec- 
tion. 

Let no simple-minded American imagine, how- 
ever, that these up-to-date women are waiting to 
welcome him and his family to their intimacy. 
The world outside of France does not exist for 
a properly brought up French aristocrat. Few 
have travelled; from their point of view, any man 
with money, born outside of France, is a"Rasta," 
unless he come with diplomatic rank, in which 
case his position at home is carefully ferreted out 
before he is entertained. Wealthy foreigners may 
live for years in Paris, without meeting a single 
member of this coterie, who will, however, join 
any new club that promises to be amusing; but as 
soon as the "Rastas" get a footing, "the seven" 
and their following withdraw. Puteaux had its 
day, then the "Polo Club" in the Bois became 
their rendezvous. But as every wealthy Ameri- 
can and "smart" Englishwoman passing the 
spring in Paris rushed for that too open circle, like 
tacks toward a magnet, it was finally cut by the 
"Duchesses," who, together with such attractive 
aides-de-camp as the Princesse de Poix, Mmes. 
de Murat, de Morny, and de Broglie, inaugu- 
rated last spring "The Ladies' Club of the 

[ >78] 



seve:h^ small t>uchesses 

Acacias," on a tiny island belonging to the "Tir 
aux Pigeons," which, for the moment, is the fad 
of its founders. 

It must be a surprise to those who do not know 
French family pride to learn that exclusive as 
these women are there are cliques in France to- 
day whose members consider the ladies we have 
been speaking of as lacking in reserve. Men like 
Guy de Durfort, Due de Lorges, or the Due de 
Massa, and their womenkind, hold themselves 
aloof on an infinitely higher plane, associating 
with very few and scorning the vulgar herd of 
"smart" people! 

It would seem as if such a vigorous weeding 
out of the unworthy would result in a rather re- 
strided comradeship. Who the "eled" are must 
become each year more difficult to discern. 

Their point of view in this case cannot differ 
materially from that of the old Methodist lady, 
who, while she was quite sure no one outside of 
her own sed; could possibly be saved, had grave 
fears concerning the futureof mostof the congre- 
gation. She felt hopeful only of the clergyman 
and herself, adding: "There are days when I have 
me doubts about the minister!" 



[ 179 ] 



«Jr A «ir ^ «r ttf Sll' w w W' yjt w w ^ ^ w w w w w w w w w «^ w w w ^^ 

iV°- 22 

Growing Old Ungracefully 

THERE comes, we are told, a crucial mo- 
ment," a tide" in all lives, that taken at 
the flood, leads on to fortune. An asser- 
tion, by the bye, which is open to doubt. What 
does come to every one is an hour fraught with 
warning, which, if unheeded, leads on to folly. 
This fateful date coincides for most of us with 
the discovery that we are turning gray, or that 
the "crow's feet" on our temples are becoming 
visible realities. The unpleasant question then 
presents itself: Are we to slip meekly into mid- 
dle age, or are arms to be taken up against our 
insidious enemy, and the rest of life become a 
losing battle, fought inch by inch? 

In other days it was the men who struggled 
the hardest against their fate. Up to this cen- 
tury, the male had always been the ornamental 
member of a family. Cassar, we read, coveted a 
laurel crown principally because it would help 
to conceal his baldness. The wigs of the Grand 
Monarque are historical. It is charaderistic of 
the time that the latter's attempts at rejuvenation 
should have been taken as a matter of course, 
while a few years later poor Madame de Pom- 
padour's artifices to retain her fleeting youth 
were laughed at and decried. , 

To-day the situation is reversed. The battle, 

[ l8o] 



QROTVINq OLT> VNGRACEFULLT 

given up by the men — who now accept their fate 
with equanimity — is being waged by their better 
halves with a vigor heretofore unknown. So gen- 
eral has this mania become that if asked what one 
weakness was most charad:eristic of modern wo- 
men, what peculiarity marked them as different 
from their sisters in other centuries, I should un- 
hesitatingly answer, "The desire to look younger 
than their years." 

That people should long to be handsomer or 
taller or better proportioned than a cruel Provi- 
dence has made them, is natural enough; but 
that so much time and trouble should be spent 
simply in trying to look "young," does seem 
unreasonable, especially when it is evident to 
everybody that such efforts must, in the nature 
of things, be failures. The men or women who 
do not look their age are rare. In each generation 
there are exceptions, people who, from one cause 
or another — generally an excellent constitution 
— succeed in producing the illusion of youth for 
a few years after youth itself has flown. 

A curious fatality that has the air of a neme- 
sis pursues those who succeed in giving this false 
appearance. When pointing them out to stran- 
gers, their admirers (in order to make the contrast 
more effeftive) add a decade or so to the real age. 
Only last month I was sitting at dinner opposite 
a famous French beauty, who at fifty succeeds in 
looking barely thirty. During the meal both my 
neighbors direded attention to her appearance, 
[ i8i ] 



THE W^rS OF mE3^ 

and in each case said: "Is n't she a wonder! You 
know she's over sixty!" So all that poor lady 
gained by looking youthful was ten years added 
to her age! 

The desire to remain attra6tive as long as pos- 
sible is not only a reasonable but a commendable 
ambition. Unfortunately the stupid means most 
of our matrons adopt to accomplish this end pro- 
duce exadlly the opposite result. 

One sign of deficient taste in our day is this 
failure to perceive that every age has a charm of 
its own which can be enhanced by appropriate 
surroundings, but is lost when placed in an incon- 
gruous setting. It saddens a lover of the beauti- 
ful to see matrons going so far astray in their de- 
sire to please as to pose for young women when 
they no longer can look the part. 

Holmes, in My Maiden Aunt^ asks plain- 
tively: — 

Why will she train that wintry curl in such a springlike 
way? 

That this folly is in the air to-day, few will 
dispute. It seems to be perpetrated unconsciously 
by the greater number, with no particular objedl 
in view, simply because other people do it. An 
unanswerable argument when used by one of the 
fair sex! 

Few matrons stop to think for themselves, or 
they would realize that by appearing in the same 
attire as their daughters they challenge a compar- 

[ 182 ] 



QROJVINq OLT> UNGRJCEFULLT 

ison which can only be to their disadvantage, and 
should be if possible avoided. Is there any dis- 
illusion more painful than, on approaching what 
appeared from a distance to be a young girl, to find 
one's self face to face with sixty years of wrinkles ? 
That is a modern version of the saying, "an old 
head on young shoulders," with a vengeance! If 
mistaken sexagenarians could divine the effedl 
that tired eyes smiling from under false hair, aged 
throats clasped with collars of pearls, and rheu- 
matic old ribs braced into a semblance of girlish 
grace, produce on the men for whose benefit 
such adornments have been arranged, reform 
would quickly follow. There is something ab- 
solutely uncanny in the illusion. The more suc- 
cessful it is, the more weird the effed:. 

No one wants to see Polonius in the finery of 
Mercutio. What a sense of fitness demands is, 
on the contrary, a "make up" in keeping with 
the role, which does not mean that a woman is to 
become a frump, but only that she is to make 
herself attractive in another way. 

During the Ancien Regime in France, matters 
of taste were considered all-important; an entire 
court would consult on the shade of a brocade, 
and hail a new coifRire as an event. The great 
ladies who had left their youth behind never 
then committed the blunder, so common among 
our middle-aged ladies, of aping the maidens of 
the day. They were far too clever for that, and 
appreciated the advantages to be gained from 

[ 183 ] 



THE rv^rs OF 31 E^ 

sombre stuffs and flattering laces. Let those who 
doubt study Nattier's exquisite portrait of Maria 
Leczinska. Nothing in the pose or toilet sug- 
gests a desire on the painter's part to rejuvenate 
his sitter. If anything, the queen's age is empha- 
sized as something honorable. The gray hair is 
simply arranged and partly veiled with black lace, 
which sets off her delicate, faded face to perfedion, 
but without flattery or fraud. 

We find the same view taken of age by the 
masters of the Renaissance, who appreciated its 
charm and loved to reproduce its grace. 

Queen Elizabeth stands out in history as a 
woman who struggled ungracefully against grow- 
ing old. Her wigs and hoops and farthingales 
served only to make her ridiculous, and the fad; 
that she wished to be painted without shadows 
in order to appear "young," is recorded as an 
aberration of a great mind. 

Are there no painters to-day who will whisper 
to our wives and mothers the secret of looking 
really lovely, and persuade them to abandon 
their foolish efforts at rejuvenation? 

Let us see some real old ladies once more, as 
they look at us from miniature and portrait. Few 
of us, I imagine, but cherish the memory of some 
such being in the old home, a soft-voiced grand- 
mother, with silvery hair brushed under a discreet 
and flattering cap, with soft, dark raiment and 
tulle-wrapped throat. There are still, it is to be 
hoped, many such lovable women in our land, 

[ 184] 



qROWlNq OLT) UNGRJCEFULLr 

but at times I look about me in dismay, and won- 
der who is to take their places when they are gone. 
Are there to be no more " old ladies"? Will the 
next generation have to look backwhen the word 
"grandmother" is mentioned, to a stylish vision 
in Parisian apparel, decollete and decked in jew- 
els, or arrayed in cocky little bonnets, perched on 
tousled curls, knowingjackets,andgolfingskirts? 
The present horror of anything elderly comes, 
probably, from the fad; that the preceding gen- 
eration went to the other extreme, young women 
retiring at forty into becapped old age. Knowing 
how easily our excitable race runs to exaggera- 
tion, one trembles to think what surprises the 
future may hold, or what will be the next decree 
of Dame Fashion. Having eliminated the "old 
lady " from off the face of the earth, how fast shall 
we continue down the fatal slope toward the 
ridiculous? Shall we be compelled by a current 
stronger than our wills to array ourselves each 
year (the bare thought makes one shudder) in 
more and more youthful apparel, until corpulent 
senators take to running about in "sailor suits," 
and od:ogenarian business men go "down town" 
in "pinafores," while belles of sixty or seventy 
summers appear in Kate Greenaway costumes, 
and dine out in short-sleeved bibs, which will al- 
low coy glimpses of their cunning old ankles to 
appear over their socks? 



[ '85] 



N"- 23 

Around a Spring 



THE greatest piece of good luck that can 
befall a Continental village is the dis- 
covery, within its limits, of a spring 
supplying some kind of malodorous water. From 
that moment the entire community, abandoning 
all other plans, give themselves over to hatching 
their golden egg, experience having taught them 
that no other source of prosperity can compare 
with a source thermale. If the water of the new- 
found spring, besides having an unpleasant smell, 
is also hot, then Providence has indeed blessed 
the township. 

The first step is to have the fluid analyzed by 
a celebrity, and its medicinal qualities duly set 
forth in a certificate. The second is to get offi- 
cial recognition from the government and the 
authorization to ered: a bath house. Once these 
preliminaries accomplished, the way lies plain be- 
fore the fortunate village; every citizen, from the 
mayor down to the humblest laborer, devotes 
himself to solving the all-important problem 
how to attrad; strangers to the place and keep 
and amuse them when they have been secured. 

Multicolored pamphlets detailing the local at- 
tractions are mailed to the four corners of the 
earth, and brilliant chromos of the village, with 
groups of peasants in the foreground, wearing 
[ '86] 



^ROUNT> Jl STRINQ 

pid:uresque costumes, are posted in every avail- 
able railway station and booking-office, regard- 
less of the fad that no costumes have been known 
in the neighborhood for half a century, except 
those provided by the hotel proprietors for their 
housemaids. A national dress, however, has a fine 
effedt in the advertisement, and gives a local color 
to the scene. What, for instance, would Athens 
be without that superb individual in national 
get-up whom one is sure to see before the hotel 
on alighting from the omnibus? I am convinced 
that he has given as much pleasure as the Acrop- 
olis to most travellers; the knowledge that the 
hotel proprietors share the expenses of his keep 
and toilet cannot dispel the charm of those scar- 
let embroideries and glittering arms. 

After preparing their trap, the wily inhabitants 
of a new watering-place have only to sit down 
and await events. The first people to appear on 
the scene are, naturally, the English, some hid- 
den natural law compelling that race to wander 
forever in inexpensive by-ways and serve as pio- 
neers for other nations. No matter how new or 
inaccessible the spring, you are sure to find a 
small colony of Britons installed in the half-fin- 
ished hotels, reading week-old editions of the 
TimeSy and grumbling over the increase in prices 
since the year before. 

As soon as the first stray Britons have de- 
veloped into an "English colony," the munici- 
pality consider themselves authorized to con- 

[ '87] 



THE r/^rs OF mEO^ 

stru6t a casino and open avenues, which are soon 
bordered by young trees and younger villas. In 
the wake of the English come invalids of other 
nationalities. If a wandering "crowned head" can 
be secured for a season, a great step is gained, as 
that will attra6t the real paying public and the 
Americans, who as a general thing are the last to 
appear on the scene. 

At this stage of its evolution, the "city fathers" 
build a theatre in connection with their casino, 
and (persuading the government to wink at their 
evasion of the gambling laws) add games of 
chance to the other temptations of the place. 

There is no better example of the way a spring 
can be developed by clever handling, and satis- 
factory results obtained from advertising and ju- 
dicious expenditure, than Aix-les-Bains, which 
twenty years ago was but a tiny mountain village, 
and to-day ranks among the wealthiest and most 
brilliant eaux in Europe. In this case, it is true, 
they had tradition to fall back on, for Aquae 
Gratinae was already a favorite watering-place in 
the year 30 b. c, when Cassar took the cure. 

There is little doubt in my mind that when 
the Roman Emperor first arrived he found a col- 
ony of spinsters and retired army officers (from 
recently conquered Britain) living around this 
spring in popin^e (which are supposed to have 
corresponded to our modern boarding-house), 
wearing waterproof togas and common-sense 
cothurni, with double cork soles. 
[ 188 ] 



^ROUNT> ^ STRINQ 

The wife of another Caesar fled hither in 1 8 1 4. 
The little inn where she passed a summer in the 
company of her one-eyed lover — while the fate 
of her husband and son was being decided at 
Vienna and Waterloo — is still standing, and 
serves as the annex of a vast new hotel. 

The way in which a watering-place is "run" 
abroad, where tourists are regarded as godsends, 
to be cherished, spoiled, and despoiled, is amus- 
ingly different from the manner of our village 
populations when summer visitors (whom they 
look upon as natural enemies) appear on the 
scene. Abroad the entire town, together with the 
surrounding villages, hamlets, and farmhouses, 
rack their brains and devote their time to invent- 
ing new amusements for the visitor, and original 
ways of enticing the gold from his pocket — for, 
mind you, on both continents the objed: is the 
same. In Europe the rural Machiavellis have 
had time to learn that smiling faces and pidu- 
resque surroundings are half the battle. 

Another point which is perfedly understood 
abroad is that a cure must be largely mental; that 
in consequence boredom retards recovery. So dur- 
ing every hour of the day and evening a different 
amusement is provided for those who feel in- 
clined to be amused. At Aix, for instance, Co- 
lonne's orchestra plays under the trees at the 
Villa des Fleurs while you are sipping your after- 
luncheon coffee. At three o'clock " Guignol " per- 
forms for the youngsters. At five o'clock there is 

[ 189] 



THE W^rS OF mED^ 

another concert in the Casino. At eight o'clock 
an operetta is given at the villa, and a comedy 
in the Casino, both ending discreetly at eleven 
o'clock. Once a week, as a variety, the park is 
illuminated and fireworks help to pass the even- 

Ifneither music nor Guignol tempts you, every 
form of trap from a four-horse break to a donkey- 
chair (the latter much in fashion since the Eng- 
lish queen's visit) is standing ready in the little 
square. On the neighboring lake you have but to 
choose between a dozen kinds of boats. The hire 
of all these modes of conveyance being fixed by 
the municipality, and plainly printed in boat or 
carriage, extortions or discussions are impossible. 
If you prefer a ramble among the hills, the wily 
native is lying in wait for you there also. When 
you arrive breathless at your journey's end, a 
shady arbor offers shelter where you may cool oflf 
and enjoy the view. It is not by accident that a 
dish of freshly gathered strawberries and a bowl 
of milk happen to be standing near by. 

When bicycling around the lake you begin to 
feel how nice a half hour's rest would be. Presto ! 
a terrace overhanging the water appears, and a 
farmer's wife who proposes brewing you a cup 
of tea, supplementing it with butter and bread 
of her own making. Weak human nature cannot 
withstand such blandishments. You find yourself 
becoming fond of the people and their smiling 
ways, returning again and again to shores where 
[ 190 ] 



^ROUNT> ^ STRINQ 

you are made so welcome. The fadl that "busi- 
ness" is at the bottom of all this in no way inter- 
feres with one's enjoyment. On the contrary, to 
a practical mind it is refreshing to see how much 
can be made of a little, and what a fund of profit 
and pleasure can be extracted from small things, 
if one goes to work in the right way. 

The trick can doubtless be overdone: at mo- 
ments one feels the little game is worked a bit 
too openly. The other evening, for instance, 
when we entered the dining-room of our hotel 
and found it decorated with flags and flowers, be- 
cause, forsooth, it was the birthday of " Vidtoria 
R. and I.," when champagne was offered at des- 
sert and the band played " God Save the Queen," 
while the English solemnly stood up in their 
places, it did seem as if the proprietor was poking 
fun at his guests in a sly way. 

I was apparently the only person, however, 
who felt this. The English were much flattered 
by the attention, so I snubbed myself with the 
refledion that if the date had been July 4, I 
doubtless should have considered the flags and 
music most a propos. 

There are also moments when the vivid pidtu- 
resqueness of this place comes near to palling on 
one. Its beauty is so suspiciously like a set scene 
that it gives the impression of having been ar- 
ranged by some clever decorator with an eye to 
effed; only. 

One is continually reminded of that inimitable 

[ "91 ] 



THE W^rS OF mED^^ 

chapter in Daudet's Tartarin sur les Alpes^ when 
the hero discovers that all Switzerland is one 
enormous humbug, run to attradl tourists; that 
the catarads are "faked," and avalanches ar- 
ranged beforehand to enliven a dull season. Can 
anything be more delicious than the disillusion 
of Tartarin and his friends, just back from a 
perilous chamois hunt, on discovering that the 
animal they had exhausted themselves in follow- 
ing all day across the mountains, was being re- 
freshed with hot wine in the kitchen of the hotel 
by its peasant owner ? 

When one visits the theatrical abbey across 
the lake and inspects the too pidluresque tombs 
of Savoy's sovereigns, or walks in the wonderful 
old garden, with its intermittent spring, the sus- 
picion occurs, in spite of one's self, that the whole 
scene will be folded up at sunset and the bare- 
footed " brother" who is showing us around with 
so much und:ion will, after our departure, hurry 
into another costume, and appear later as one of 
the happy peasants who are singing and drinking 
in front of that absurdly operatic little inn you 
pass on the drive home. 

There is a certain pink cottage, with a thatched 
roof and overhanging vines, about which I have 
serious doubts, and fully exped; some day to see 
Columbine appear on that pistache-green bal- 
cony (vv^here the magpie is hanging in a wicker 
cage), and, taking Arlequin's hand, disappear 
into the water-butt while Clown does a header 

[ 192 ] 



^ROUNT> ^ STRINQ 

over the half-door, and the cottage itself turns 
into a gilded coach, with Columbine kissing her 
hand from the window. 

A problem which our intelligent people have 
not yet set themselves to solve, is being worked 
out abroad. The little cities of Europe have dis- 
covered that prosperity comes with the tourist, 
that with increased facilities of communication 
the township which expends the most in money 
and brains in attracting rich travellers to its gates 
is the place that will grow and prosper. It is a sim- 
ple lesson, and one that I would gladly see our 
American watering-places learn and apply. 



[ 193 ] 



N"- 24 

The Better Part 



A S I watch, year after year, the flowers of 
l-\ our aristocratic hothouses blooming be- 
X ^ hind the glass partitions of their conser- 
vatories, tended always by the same gardeners, 
admired by the same amateurs, and then, for the 
most part, withering unplucked on their virgin 
stems, I wonder if the wild flowers appreciate the 
good luck that allows them to taste the storm 
and the sunshine untrammelled and disperse per- 
fume according to their own sweet will. 

To drop a cumbersome metaphor, there is not 
the shadow of a doubt that the tamest and most 
monotonous lives in this country are those led 
by the women in our "exclusive" sets, for the 
good reason that they are surrounded by all the 
trammels of European society without enjoying 
any of its benefits, and live in an atmosphere 
that takes the taste out of existence too soon. 

Girls abroad are kept away from the "world" 
because their social life only commences after 
marriage. In America, on the contrary, a woman 
is laid more or less on the shelf the day she 
becomes a wife, so that if she has not made hay 
while her maiden sunshine lasted, the chances are 
she will have but meagrely furnished lofts; and 
how, I ask, is a girl to harvest always in the 
same field? 

[ 194 ] 



THE "BETTER TART 

When, in this country, a properly brought up 
young aristocrat is presented by her mamma to 
an admiring circle of friends, she is quite a hlasee 
person. The dancing classes she has attended 
for a couple of years before her debut (that she 
might know the right set of youths and maidens) 
have taken the bloom off her entrance into the 
world. She and her friends have already talked 
over the " men " of their circle, and decided, with 
a sigh, that there were discouragingly few good 
matches going about. A juvenile Newporter 
was recently overheard deploring (to a friend of 
fifteen summers), "By the time we come out 
there will only be two matches in the market," 
meaning, of course, millionnaires who could pro- 
vide their brides with country and city homes, 
yachts, and the other appurtenances of a brilliant 
position. Now, the unfortunate part of the affair 
is, that such a worldly-minded maiden will in 
good time be obliged to make her debut, dine, 
and dance through a dozen seasons without mak- 
ing a new acquaintance. Her migrations from 
town to seashore, or from one country house to 
another, will be but changes of scene: the adiors 
will remain always the same. When she dines 
out, she can, if she cares to take the trouble, 
make a fair guess as to who the guests will be 
before she starts, for each entertainment is but 
a new shuffle of the too well-known pack. She 
is morally certain of being taken in to dinner by 
one of fifty men whom she has known since her 

[ m ] 



THE W^YS OF mE^H^ 

childhood, and has met on an average twice a 
week since she was eighteen. 

Of foreigners such a girl sees little beyond a 
stray diplomatist or two, in search of a fortune, 
and her glimpses of Paris society are obtained 
from the windows of a hotel on the Place Ven- 
dome. In London or Rome she may be presented 
in a few international salons, but as she finds it 
difficult to make her new acquaintances under- 
stand what an exalted position she occupies at 
home, the chances are that pique at seeing some 
Daisy Miller attrad: all the attention will drive 
my lady back to the city where she is known and 
appreciated, nothing being more difficult for an 
American "swell" than explaining to the unini- 
tiated in what way her position differs from that 
of the rest of her compatriots. 

When I see the bevies of highly educated and 
attradive girls who make their bows each season, 
I ask myself in wonder, "Who, in the name of 
goodness, are they to marry?" 

In the very circle where so much stress is laid 
on a girl's establishing herself brilliantly, the 
fewest possible husbands are to be found. Yet, 
limited as such a girl's choice is, she will sooner 
remain single than accept a husband out of her 
set. She has a perfectly distinft idea of what she 
wants, and has lived so long in the atmosphere 
of wealth that existence without footmen and 
male cooks, horses and French clothes, appears 
to her impossible. Such large proportions do 

[ 196] 



THE "BETTER TART 

these details assume in her mind that each year 
the husband himself becomes of less importance, 
and what he can provide the essential point. 

If an outsider is sufficiently rich, my lady may 
consent to unite her destinies to his, hoping to 
get him absorbed into her own world. 

It is pathetic, considering the restridled number 
of eligible men going about, to see the trouble and 
expense that parents take to keep their daughters 
en evidence. When one refled:s on the number of 
people who are disturbed when such a girl dines 
out, the horses and men and women who are kept 
up to convey her home, the time it has taken her 
to dress, the cost of the toilet itself, and then 
see the man to whom she will be consigned for 
the evening, — some bored man about town who 
has probably taken her mother in to dinner 
twenty years before, and will not trouble himself 
to talk with his neighbor, or a schoolboy, break- 
ing in his first dress suit, — when one realizes that 
for many maidens this goes on night after night 
and season after season, it seems incredible that 
they should have the courage, or think it worth 
their while, to keep up the game. 

The logical result of turning eternally in the 
same circle is that nine times out of ten the men 
who marry choose girls out of their own set, 
some pretty stranger who has burst on their 
jaded vision with all the charm of the unknown. 
A conventional society maiden who has not been 
fortunate enough to meet and marry a man she 

[ 197 ] 



THE iv^rs OF mEC^ 

loves, or whose fortune tempts her, during the 
first season or two that she is "out," will in all 
probability go on revolving in an ever-narrowing 
circle until she becomes stationary in its centre. 

In comparison with such an existence the life 
of the average "summer girl" is one long frolic, 
as varied as that of her aristocratic sister is mo- 
notonous. Each spring she has the excitement 
of seledling a new battle-ground for her ma- 
nceuvres, for in the circle in which she moves, 
parents leave such details to their children. Once 
installed in the hotel of her choice, mademoiselle 
proceeds to make the acquaintance of an entirely 
new set of friends, delightful youths just arrived, 
and bent on making the most of their brief holi- 
days, with whom her code of etiquette allows her 
to sail all day, and pass uncounted evening hours 
in remote corners of piazza or beach. 

As the words "position" and "set" have no 
meaning to her young ears, and no one has ever 
preached to her the importance of improving her 
social standing, the acquaintances that chance 
throws in her path are accepted without question 
if they happen to be good-looking and amusing. 
She has no prejudice as to standing, and if her 
supply of partners runs short, she will dance and 
flirt with the clerk from the desk in perfed good 
humor — in fa(5t, she stands rather in awe of that 
fundionary, and admires the "English" cut of 
his clothes and his Eastern swagger. A large hotel 
is her dream of luxury, and a couple of simulta- 

[ "98] 



THE "BErrETi^ TART 

neous flirtations her ideal of bliss. No long even- 
ings of cruel boredom, in order to be seen at 
smart houses, will cloud the maiden's career, no 
agonized anticipation of retiring partnerless from 
cotillion or supper will disturb her pleasure. 

I n the city she hails from, everybody she knows 
lives in about the same style. Some are said to 
be wealthier than others, but nothing in their 
way of life betrays the fad:; the art of knowing 
how to enjoy wealth being but httle understood 
outside of our one or two great cities. She has 
that tranquil sense of being the social equal of 
the people she meets, the absence of which makes 
the snob's life a burden. 

During her summers away from home our 
"young friend" will meet other girls of her 
age, and form friendships that result in mutual 
visiting during the ensuing winter, when she will 
continue to add more new names to the long list 
of her admirers, until one fine morning she writes 
home to her delighted parents that she has found 
the right man at last, and engaged herself to him. 

Never having penetrated to those sacred cen- 
tres where birth and wealth are considered all- 
important, and ignoring the supreme importance 
of living in one set, the plan of life that such a 
woman lays out for herself is exceedingly sim- 
ple. She will coquette and dance and dream her 
pleasant dream until Prince Charming, who is 
to awaken her to a new life, comes and kisses 
away the dew of girlhood and leads his bride 

[ "^99 ] 



THE W^rS OF mEOi^ 

out into the work-a-day world. The simple sur- 
roundings and ambitions of her youth will make 
it easy for this wife to follow the man of her choice, 
if necessary, to the remote village where he is di- 
recting a factory or to the mining camp where the 
foundations of a fortune lie. Life is full of deli- 
cious possibilities for her. Men who are forced 
to make their way in youth often turn out to be 
those who make " history " later, and a bride who 
has not become prematurely blasee to all the lux- 
uries or pleasures of existence will know the great- 
est happiness that can come into a woman's life, 
that of rising at her husband's side, step by step, 
enjoying his triumphs as she shared his poverty. 



[ 200 ] 



N"- 25 
La 

Comedie Francaise a Orange 

IDLING up through the south of France, 
in company with a passionate lover of that 
fair land, we learned on arriving at Lyons, 
that the ad:ors of the Comedie Francaise were 
to pass through there the next day, en route for 
Orange, where a series of fetes had been arranged 
by " Les Felibres." This society, composed of the 
writers and poets of Provence, have the preserva- 
tion of the Roman theatre at Orange (perhaps the 
most perfed specimen of classical theatrical archi- 
tecture in existence) profoundly at heart, their 
hope being to restore some of its pristine beauty 
to the ruin, and give from time to time perfor- 
mances of the Greek masterpieces on its disused 
stage. 

The money obtained by these representations 
will be spent in the restoration of the theatre, and 
it is expedled in time to make Orange the centre 
of classic drama, as Beyreuthis that of Wagnerian 
music. 

At Lyons, the cortege was to leave the Paris 
train and take boats down the Rhone, to their des- 
tination. Their programme was so tempting that 
the offer of places on one of the craft was enough 
to lure us away from our prearranged route. 

By eight o'clock the following morning, we 

[ 201 ] 



THE iv^rs OF mED^ 

were on foot, as was apparently the entire city. 
A cannon fired from Fort Lamothe gave the sig- 
nal of our start. The river, covered with a thou- 
sand gayly decorated craft, glinted and glittered 
in the morning light. It would be difficult to for- 
get that scene, — the banks of the Rhone were 
lined with the rural population, who had come 
miles in every direction to acclaim the passage of 
their poets. 

Everywhere along our route the houses were 
gayly decorated and arches of flowers had been 
ereded. We float past Vienne, a city once gov- 
erned by Pontius Pilate, and Tournon, with its 
feudal chateau, blue in the distance, then Saint 
Peray, on a verdant vine-clad slope. As we pass 
under the bridge at Montelimar, an avalanche 
of flowers descends on us from above. 

The rapid current of the river soon brings our 
flotilla opposite Vivier, whose Gothic cathedral 
bathes its feet in the Rhone. Saint Esprit and its 
antique bridge appear next on the horizon. Tra- 
dition asserts that the Holy Spirit, disguised as 
a stone mason, directed its construction; there 
were thirteen workmen each day, but at sunset, 
when the men gathered to be paid, but twelve 
could be counted. 

Here the mayor and the municipal council 
were to have received us and delivered an ad- 
dress, but were not on hand. We could see the 
tardy cortege hastening towards the bridge as we 
shot away down stream. 

[ 202 ] 



COMEDIE FRANC AISE J ORANGE 

On nearing Orange, the banks and quays of 
the river are alive with people. The high road, 
parallel with the stream, is alive with a many- 
colored throng. On all sides one hears the lan- 
guage of Mistral, and recognizes the music of 
Mireille sung by these pilgrims to an artistic 
Mecca, where a miracle is to be performed — and 
classic art called forth from its winding-sheet. 

The population of a whole region is astir under 
the ardent Provencal sun, to witness a resurrec- 
tion of the Drama in the historic valley of the 
Rhone, through whose channel the civilization 
and art and culture of the old world floated up 
into Europe to the ceaseless cry of the cigales. 

Chateaurenard ! our water journey is ended. 
Through the leafy avenues that lead to Orange, 
we see the arch of Marius and the gigantic pro- 
scenium of the theatre, rising above the roofs of 
the little city. 

So few of our compatriots linger in the south 
of France after the spring has set in, or wander 
in the by-ways of that inexhaustible country, that 
a word about the representations at Orange may 
be of interest, and perchance create a desire to 
see the masterpieces of classic drama (the com- 
mon inheritance of all civilized races) revived 
with us, and our stage put to its legitimate use, 
cultivating and elevating the taste of the people. 

One would so gladly see a little of the money 
that is generously given for music used to revive 
in America a love for the classic drama. 

[ ^03 ] 



THE w^rs OF mED^ 

We are certainly not inferior to our neighbors 
in culture or appreciation, and yet such a per- 
formance as I witnessed at Orange (laying aside 
the enchantment lent by the surroundings) would 
not be possible here. Why? But to return to my 
narrative. 

The sun is setting as we toil, ticket in hand, 
up the Roman stairway to the upper rows of 
seats ; far below the local gendarmerie who mostly 
understand their orders backwards are strug- 
gling with the throng, whose entrance they are 
apparently obstrudling by every means in their 
power. Once seated, and having a wait of an 
hour before us, we amused ourselves watching 
the crowd filling in every corner of the vast build- 
ing, like a rising tide of multi-colored water. 

We had purposely chosen places on the high- 
est and most remote benches, to test the vaunted 
acoustic qualities of the auditorium, and to ob- 
tain a view of the half-circle of humanity, the 
gigantic wall back of the stage, and the surround- 
ing country. 

As day softened into twilight, and twilight 
deepened into a luminous Southern night, the o.^- 
i^^i was incomparable. The belfries and roofs of 
mediaeval Orange rose in the clear air, overtopping 
the half ruined theatre in many places. The arch 
of Marius gleamed white against the surrounding 
hills, themselves violet and purple in the sunset, 
their shadow broken here and there by the outline 
of a crumbling chateau or the lights of a village. 
[ 204 ] 



COMEDIE FRANCAISE A ORANGE 

Behind us the sentries paced along the wall, 
wrapped in their dark cloaks; and over all the 
scene, one snowtopped peak rose white on the 
horizon, like some classic virgin assisting at an 
Olympian solemnity. 

On the stage, partly cleared of the debris of 
fifteen hundred years, trees had been left where 
they had grown, among fallen columns, frag- 
ments of capital and statue; near the front a 
superb rose-laurel recalled the Attic shores. To 
the right, wild grasses and herbs alternated with 
thick shrubbery, among which Orestes hid later, 
during the lamentations of his sister. To the left 
a gigantic fig-tree, growing against the dark wall, 
threw its branches far out over the stage. 

It was from behind its foliage that "Gaul," 
" Provence," and " France," personated by three 
actresses of the " Frangais," advanced to salute 
Apollo, seated on his rustic throne, in the pro- 
logue which began the performance. 

Since midday the weather had been threaten- 
ing. At seven o'clock there was almost a shower 
— a moment of terrible anxiety. What a mis- 
fortune if it should rain, just as the adors were 
to appear, here, where it had not rained for 
nearly four months ! My right-hand neighbor, a 
citizen of Beaucaire, assures me, "It will be 
nothing, only a strong 'mistral' for to-morrow." 
An eled:rician is putting the finishing touches to 
his arrangements. He tries vainly to concentrate 
some light on the box where the committee is 
[ 205 ] 



THE W^rS OF 31 EO^ 

to sit, which is screened by a bit of crumbhng 
wall, but finally gives it up. 

Suddenly the bugles sound; the orchestra 
rings out the Marseillaise; it is eight o'clock. 
The sky is wild and threatening. An unseen hand 
strikes the three traditional blows. The Faun 
Lybrian slips down from a branch of a great elm, 
and throws himself on the steps that later are to 
represent the entrance to the palace of Agamem- 
non, and commences the prologue (an invocation 
to Apollo), in the midst of such confusion that 
we hear hardly a word. Little by little, however, 
the crowd quiets down, and I catch Louis Gallet's 
fine lines, marvellously phrased by Mesdames 
Bartet, Dudlay, Moreno, and the handsome Fe- 
noux as Apollo. 

The real interest of the public is only aroused, 
however, when The Erynnies begins. This power- 
ful adaptation from the tragedy of i^schylus is 
the ckefd'i^uvre of l^tcontedt Lisle. The silence 
is now complete. One feels in the air that the 
moment so long and so anxiously awaited has 
come, that a great event is about to take place. 
Every eye is fixed on the stage, waiting to see 
what will appear from behind the dark arches 
of the proscenium. A faint, plaintive strain of 
music floats out on the silence. Demons crawl 
among the leafy shadows. Not a light is visible, 
yet the centre of the stage is in strong relief, 
shading off into a thousand fantastic shadows. 
The audience sits in complete darkness. Then 
[ 206 ] 



COMEDIE FRANC AISE A ORANGE 

we see the people of Argos, winding toward us 
from among the trees, lamenting, as they have 
done each day for ten years, the long absence 
of their sons and their king. The old men no 
longer dare to consult the oracles, fearing to learn 
that all is lost. The beauty of this lament roused 
the first murmur of applause, each word, each 
syllable, chiming out across that vast semicircle 
with a clearness and an effe6l impossible to de- 
scribe. 

Now it is the sentinel, who from his watch- 
tower has caught the first glimpse of the return- 
ing army. We hear him dashing like a torrent 
down the turret stair; at the doorway, his gar- 
ments blown by the wind, his body bending for- 
ward in a splendid pose of joy and exultation, he 
announces in a voice of thunder the arrival of 
the king. 

So completely are the twenty thousand spec- 
tators under the spell of the drama that at this 
news one can feel a thrill pass over the throng, 
whom the splendid verses hold palpitating under 
their charm, awaiting only the end of the tirade 
to break into applause. 

From that moment the performance is one 
long triumph. Clytemnestra (Madame Lerou) 
comes with her suite to receive the king (Mou- 
net-Sully), the conqueror! I never realized be- 
fore all the perfedion that training can give the 
speaking voice. Each syllable seemed to ring out 
with a bell-like clearness. As she gradually rose 

[ 207 ] 



THE tv^rs OF mE3^ 

in the last ad: to the scene with Orestes, I un- 
derstood the use of the great wall behind the 
aftors. It increased the power of the voices and 
lent them a sonority difficult to believe. The ef- 
fedl was overwhelming when, unable to escape 
death, Clytemnestra cries out her horrible im- 
precations. 

Mounet-Sully surpassed himself. Paul Mou- 
net gave us the complete illusion of a monster 
thirsting for blood, even his mother's! When 
striking her as she struck his father, he answers 
her despairing query, "Thou wouldst not slay 
thy mother?" "Woman, thou hast ceased to be a 
mother!" Dudlay (as Cassandra) reaches a splen- 
did climax when she prophesies the misfortune 
hanging over her family, which she is powerless 
to avert. 

It is impossible in feeble prose to give any 
idea of the impression those lines produce in 
the stupendous theatre, packed to its utmost 
limits — the wild night, with a storm in the air, 
a stage which seems like a clearing in some for- 
est inhabited by Titans, the terrible tragedy of 
iEschylus following the graceful fete of Apollo. 

After the unavoidable confusion at the begin- 
ning, the vast audience listen in profound silence 
to an expression of pure art. They are no longer 
adtors we hear, but demi-gods. With voices of the 
storm, possessed by some divine afflatus, thun- 
dering out verses of fire — carried out of them- 
selves in a whirlwind of passion, like antique 
[ 208 ] 



COMEDIE FRANgJISE J ORANGE 

prophets and Sibyls foretelling the misfortunes 
of the world! 

That night will remain immutably fixed in 
my memory, if I live to be as old as the theatre 
itself We were so moved, my companion and I, 
and had seen the crowd so moved, that fearing 
to efface the impression if we returned the sec- 
ond night to see Antigone, we came quietly away, 
pondering over it all, and realizing once again 
that a thing of beauty is a source of eternal de- 
light. 



[ 209 ] 



N°- 26 

Pre-palatial Newport 

THE historic Ocean House of Newport 
is a ruin. Flames have laid low the un- 
sightly structure that was at one time 
the best-known hotel in America. Its fifty-odd 
years of existence, as well as its day, are over. 
Having served a purpose, it has departed, to- 
gether with the generation and habits of life that 
produced it, into the limbo where old houses, 
old customs, and superannuated ideas survive, — 
the memory of the few who like to recall other 
days and wander from time to time in a recon- 
structed past. 

There was a certain appropriateness in the 
manner of its taking off. The proud old struc- 
ture had doubtless heard projects of rebuilding 
discussed by its owners (who for some years had 
been threatening to tear it down); wounded 
doubtless by unflattering truths, the hotel de- 
cided that if its days were numbered, an exit 
worthy of a leading role was at least possible. 
" Pull me down, indeed ! That is all very well for 
ordinary hostleries, but from an establishment of 
my pretensions, that has received the aristocracy 
of the country, and countless foreign swells, some- 
thing more is expeded!" 

So it turned the matter over and debated within 
its shaky old brain (Mrs. Skewton fashion) what 
[ 210 ] 



TRE-P A LATl AL d^EWTORT 

would be the most becoming and effedlive way 
of retiring from the social whirl. Balls have been 
overdone; people are no longer tempted by re- 
ceptions; a banquet was out of the question. Sud- 
denly the wily building hit on an idea. "I 'II give 
them 2i feu cT artifice. There hasn't been a first- 
class fire here since I burned myself down fifty- 
three years ago! That kind of entertainment 
has n't been run into the ground like everything 
else in these degenerate days! I '11 do it in the 
best and most complete way, and give Newport 
something to talk about, whenever my name shall 
be mentioned in the future!" 

Daudet, in his L. ' Immortel^ shows us how some 
people are born lucky. His "Loisel of the Insti- 
tute," although an insignificant and commonplace 
man, succeeded all through life in keeping him- 
self before the public, and getting talked about 
as a celebrity. He even arranged (to the disgust 
and envy of his rivals) to die during a week when 
no event of importance was occupying public 
attention. In consequence, reporters, being short 
of "copy," owing to a dearth of murders and 
"first nights," seized on this demise and made 
his funeral an event. 

The truth is, the Ocean House had lived so 
long in an atmosphere of ostentatious worldli- 
ness that, lijce many residents of the summer city, 
it had come to take itself and its "position" seri- 
ously, and imagine that the eyes of the country 
were fixed upon and expeded something of it. 
[an ] 



THE JV^rS OF 31E3^ 

The air of Newport has always proved fatal to 
big hotels. One after another they have appeared 
and failed, the Ocean House alone dragging out 
a forlorn existence. As the flames worked their 
will and the careless crowd enjoyed the sped:acle, 
one could not help feeling a vague regret for the 
old place, more for what it represented than for 
any intrinsic value of its own. Without greatly 
stretching a point it might be taken to represent 
a social condition, a phase, as it were, in our de- 
velopment. In a certain obscure way, it was an 
epoch-marking stru6hire. Its building closed the 
era of primitive Newport, its decline corresponded 
with the end of the pre-palatial period — an era 
extending from 1845 to 1885. 

During forty years Newport had a unique ex- 
istence, unknown to the rest of America, and des- 
tined to have a lasting influence on her ways, 
an existence now as completely forgotten as the 
earlier boarding-house matinee dansante time.* 
The sixties, seventies, and eighties in Newport 
were pleasant years that many of us regret in spite 
of modern progress. Simple, inexpensive days, 
when people dined at three (looking on the newly 
introduced six o'clock dinners as an English in- 
novation and modern "frill"), and "high-teaed" 
together dyspeptically ofi^ "sally lunns" and 
"preserves," washed down by coffee and choco- 
late, which it was the toilsome duty of a hostess 
to dispense from a silver-laden tray; days when 
* "Newport of the Past," Worldly Ways and By-ways. 

[ 212 ] 



TRE-TA LJTIJL O^EWPORT 

"rockaways" drawn by lean, long-tailed horses 
and driven by mustached darkies were, if not the 
rule, far from being an exception. 

"Dutch treat" picnics, another archaic amuse- 
ment, flourished then, directed by a famous or- 
ganizer at his farm, each guest being told what 
share of the eatables it was his duty to provide, 
an edidl from which there was no appeal. 

Sport was little known then, young men pass- 
ing their afternoons tooling solemnly up and 
down Bellevue Avenue in top-hats and black 
frock-coats under the burning August sun. 

This was the epoch when the Town and Coun- 
try Club was young and full of vigor. We met at 
each other's houses or at historic sites to hear 
papers read on serious subjeds. One particular 
afternoon is vivid in my memory. We had all 
driven out to a point on the shore beyond the 
Third Beach, where the Norsemen were supposed 
to have landed during their apocryphal visit to 
this continent. It had been a hot drive, but when 
we stopped, a keen wind was blowing in from 
the sea. During a pause in the prolix address that 
followed, a coachman's voice was heard to mut- 
ter, "If he jaws much longer all the horses will 
be foundered," which brought the learned address 
to an ignominious and hasty termination. 

Newport during the pre-palatial era afFeded 
culture, and a whiff of Boston pervaded the air, 
much of which was tiresome, yet with an under- 
current of charm and refinement. Those who 

[ 213 ] 



THE W^rS OF 3IEJ^ 

had the privilege of knowing Mrs. Julia Ward 
Howe, will remember the pleasant *'teas" and 
sparkling conversation she offered her guests in 
the unpretending cottage where the beauty of 
the daughter was as brilliant as the mother's wit. 

Two estates on Bellevue Avenue are now with- 
out the hostesses who, in those days, showed the 
world what great ladies America could produce. 
It was the foreign-born husband of one of these 
women who gave Newport its first lessons in luxu- 
rious living. Until then Americans had travelled 
abroad and seen elaborately served meals and 
properly appointed stables without the ambi- 
tion of copying such things at home. Colonial 
and revolutionary state had died out, and mod- 
ern extravagance had not yet appeared. In the 
interregnum much was negleded that might have 
added to the convenience and grace of life. 

In France, under Louis Philippe, and in Eng- 
land, during Vidoria's youth, taste reached an 
ebb tide; in neither of those countries, however, 
did the general standard fall so low as here. It was 
owing to the savoir /aire of one man that New- 
porters and New York first saw at home what 
they had admired abroad, — liveried servants in 
sufficient numbers, dinners served a la i?«jj^,and 
breeched and booted grooms on English-built 
traps, innovations quickly followed by his neigh- 
bors, for the most marked charadleristic of the 
American is his ability to "catch on." 

When, during the war of the secession, our 

[ 214 ] 



TRE-TA LATIAL J<^EWTORr 

Naval Academy was removed from Annapolis 
and installed in the empty Atlantic House (cor- 
ner of Bellevue Avenue and Pelham Street), 
hotel life had already begun to decline; but the 
Ocean House, which was considered a vast en- 
terprise at that time, inherited from the older 
hotels the custom of giving Saturday evening 
"hops," the cottagers arriving at these in- 
formal entertainments toward nine o'clock and 
promenading up and down the corridors or dan- 
cing in the parlor, to the admiration of a public 
colledied to enjoy the spe6lacle. At eleven the 
doors of the dining-room opened, and a line of 
well-drilled darkies passed ices and lemonade. 
By half-past eleven (the hour at which we now 
arrive at a dance) every one was at home and 
abed. 

One remembers with a shudder the military 
manoeuvres that attended hotel meals in those 
days, the marching and countermarching, your 
dinner cooling while the head waiter reviewed his 
men. That idiotic custom has been abandoned, 
like many better and worse. Next to the Ameri- 
can ability to catch on comes the facility with 
which he can drop a fad. 

In this peculiarity the history of Newport has 
been an epitome of the country, every form of 
amusement being in turn taken up, run into the 
ground, and then abandoned. At one time it was 
the fashion to drive to Fort Adams of an after- 
noon and circle round and round the little green 

[215] 



THE W^rS OF MEd^ 

to the sounds of a military band; then, for no 
visible reason, people took to driving on the 
Third Beach, an inaccessible and lonely point 
which for two or three summers was considered 
the only corredl promenade. 

I blush to recall it, but at that time most of 
the turnouts were hired hacks. Next, Graves 
Point, on the Ocean Drive, became the popular 
meeting-place. Then society took to attending 
polo of an afternoon, a sport just introduced from 
India. This era corresponded with the opening 
of the Casino (the old reading-room dating from 
1 854). For several years every one crowded dur- 
ing hot August mornings onto the airless lawns 
and piazzas of the new establishment. It seems on 
looking back as if we must have been more fond 
of seeing each other in those days than we are 
now. To ride up and down a beach and bow 
filled our souls with joy, and the "cake walk" 
was an essential part of every ball, the guests 
parading in pairs round and round the room be- 
tween the dances instead of sitting quietly "out." 
The opening promenade at the New York Char- 
ity Ball is a survival of this inane custom. 

The disappearance of the Ocean House 
"hops" marked the last stage in hotel life. Since 
then better-class watering places all over the coun- 
try have slowly but surely followed Newport's 
lead. The closed caravansaries of Bar Harbor 
and elsewhere bear silent testimony to the fad 
that refined Americans are at last awakening to 

[216] 



TRE-TALJTIAL O^EWTORT 

the charms of home life during their holidays, 
and are discarding, as fast as finances will per- 
mit, the pernicious herding system. In conse- 
quence the hotel has ceased to be, what it un- 
doubtedly was twenty years ago, the focus of 
our summer life. 

Only a few charred rafters remain of the Ocean 
House. A few talkative old duffers like myself 
alone survive the day it represents. Changing 
social conditions have gradually placed both on 
the retired list. A new and palatial Newport has 
replaced the simpler city. Let us not waste too 
much time regretting the past, or be too sure 
that it was better than the present. It is quite pos- 
sible, if the old times we are writing so fondly 
about should return, we might discover that the 
same thing was true of them as a ragged urchin 
asserted the other afternoon of the burning build- 
ing: 

"Say, Tom, did ye know there was the big- 
gest room in the world in that hotel?" 

"No; what room?" 

"Room for improvement, ya!" 



[ ^17 ] 



N"- 27 

Sardou at Marly-le-Roy 

NEAR the centre of that verdant triangle 
formed by Saint Cloud, Versailles, and 
Saint Germain lies the village of Mar- 
ly-le-Roy, high up on a slope above the lazy 
Seine — an entrancing corner of the earth, much 
afFeded formerly by French crowned heads, and 
by the "Sun King" in particular, who in his old 
age grew tired of Versailles and built here one 
of his many villas (the rival in its day of the 
Trianons), and proceeded to amuse himself there- 
in with the same solemnity which had already 
made vice at Versailles more boresome than vir- 
tue elsewhere. 

Two centuries and four revolutions have swept 
away all trace of this kingly caprice and the art 
treasures it contained. Alone, the marble horses 
of Coustou, transported later to the Champs 
Elysees, remain to attest the splendor of the past. 

The quaint village of Marly, clustered around 
its church, stands, however — with the faculty 
that insignificant things have of remaining un- 
changed — as it did when the most polished 
court of Europe rode through it to and from 
the hunt. On the outskirts of this village are 
now two forged and gilded gateways through 
which the passer-by can catch a glimpse of trim 
avenues, fountains, and well-kept lawns. 

[218] 



SJRDOU Jtr m ARLr-LE-Ti^Or 

There seems a certain poetical justice in the 
facft that Alexandre Dumas fils and Vidorien 
Sardou, the two giants of modern drama, should 
have divided between them the inheritance of 
Louis XIV., its greatest patron. One of the gates 
is closed and moss-grown. Its owner lies in Pere- 
la-Chaise. At the other I ring, and am soon 
walking up the famous avenue bordered by co- 
lossal sphinxes presented to Sardou by the late 
Khedive. The big stone brutes, connected in 
one's mind with heat and sandy wastes, look 
oddly out of place here in this green wilder- 
ness — a bite, as it were, out of the forest which, 
under different names, lies like a mantle over the 
country-side. 

Five minutes later I am being shown through 
a suite of antique salons, in the last of which sits 
the great playwright. How striking the likeness 
is to Voltaire, — the same delicate face, lit by a 
half cordial, half mocking smile; the same fragile 
body and indomitable spirit. The illusion is en- 
hanced by our surroundings, for the mellow splen- 
dor of the room where we stand might have 
served as a background for the Sage of Ferney. 

Wherever one looks, works of eighteenth-cen- 
tury art meet the eye. The walls are hung with 
Gobelin tapestries that fairly take one's breath 
away, so exquisite is their design and their pres- 
ervation. They represent a marble colonnade, 
each column of which is wreathed with flowers 
and conneded to its neighbor with garlands. 

[ 219 ] 



THE W^rS OF mEO^ 

Between them are bits of delicate landscape, with 
here and there a group of figures dancing or 
picnicking in the shadow of tall trees or under 
fantastical porticos. The furniture of the room 
is no less marvellous than its hangings. One 
turns from a harpsichord of vernis-martin to the 
clock, a relic from Louis XIV. 's bedroom in 
Versailles; on to the bric-a-brac of old Saxe or 
Sevres in admiring wonder. My host drifts into 
his showman manner, irresistibly comic in this 
writer. 

The pleasures of the colledlor are apparently 
divided into three phases, without counting the 
rapture of the hunt. First, the delight a true 
amateur takes in living among rare and beauti- 
ful things. Second, the satisfadion of showing 
one's treasures to less fortunate mortals, and last, 
but perhaps keenest of all, the pride which comes 
from the fa6t that one has been clever enough 
to acquire objedls which other people want, at 
prices below their market value. Sardou evidently 
enjoys these three sensations vividly. That he 
lives with and loves his possessions is evident, 
and the smile with which he calls your attention 
to one piece after another, and mentions what 
they cost him, attests that the two other joys are 
not unknown to him. He is old enough to re- 
member the golden age when really good things 
were to be picked up for modest sums, before 
every parvenu considered it necessary to turn his 
house into a museum, and fadlories existed for 
[ 220 ] 



SJRDOU ^r m A RLT-LE-T^Or 

the produftion of "antiques" to be sold to in- 
nocent amateurs. 

In calling attention to a set of carved and 
gilded furniture, covered in Beauvais tapestry, 
such as sold recently in Paris at the Valen^ay sale 
— Talleyrand colledtion — for sixty thousand 
dollars, Sardou mentions with a laugh that he got 
his fifteen pieces for fifteen hundred dollars, the 
year after the war, from an old chateau back of 
Cannes ! One unique piece of tapestry had cost 
him less than one-tenth of that sum. He dis- 
covered it in a peasant's stable under a two-foot 
layer of straw and earth, where it had probably 
been hidden a hundred years before by its owner, 
and then all record of it lost by his descendants. 

The mention of Cannes sets Sardou off on 
another train of thought. His family for three 
generations have lived there. Before that they 
were Sardinian fishermen. His great-grandfather, 
he imagines, was driven by some tempest to the 
shore near Cannes and settled where he found 
himself. Hence the name! For in the patois of 
Provencal France an inhabitant of Sardinia is 
still called un Sardou, 

The sun is off the front of the house by this 
time, so we migrate to a shady corner of the lawn 
for our aperitifs the inevitable vermouth or 
"bitters" which Frenchmen take at five o'clock. 
Here another surprise awaits the visitor, who has 
not realized, perhaps, to what high ground the 
crawling local train has brought him. At our feet, 

[ 221 ] 



THE IF^rS OF 3^ED^ 

far below the lawn and shade trees that encircle 
the chateau, lies the Seine, twisting away toward 
Saint Germain, whose terrace and dismantled pal- 
ace stand outlined against the sky. To our right 
is the plain of Saint Denis, the cathedral in its 
midst looking like an opera-glass on a green 
table. Further still to the right, as one turns the 
corner of the terrace, lies Paris, a white line on the 
horizon, broken by the mass of the Arc de Tri- 
omphe, the roof of the Opera, and the Eiffel 
Tower, resplendent in a fresh coat of yellow lac- 
quer! 

The ground where we stand was occupied by 
the feudal castle of Les Sires de Marly; although 
all traces of that stronghold disappeared centu- 
ries ago, the present owner of the land points 
out with pride that the extraordinary beauty of 
the trees around his house is owing to the fail 
that their roots reach deep down to the rich loam 
collecfted during centuries in the castle's moat. 

The little chateau itself, built during the reign 
of Louis XIV. for the grand-veneur of the for- 
est of Marly, is intensely French in type, — a 
long, low building on a stone terrace, with no 
trace of ornament about its white facade or on its 
slanting roof. Inside, all the rooms are "front," 
communicating with each other en suiu, and open 
into a corridor running the length of the build- 
ing at the back, which, in turn, opens on a stone 
court. Two lateral wings at right angles to the 
main building form the sides of this courtyard, 

[ 222 ] 



SARDOU Jtr 31 A RLT-LE-^Or 

and contain les communs^ the kitchen, laundry, 
servants' rooms, and the other annexes of a large 
establishment. This arrangement for a summer 
house is for some reason negleded by our Amer- 
ican archite6ts. I can recall only one home in 
America built on this plan. It is Giraud Foster's 
beautiful villa at Lenox. You may visit five hun- 
dred French chateaux and not find one that dif- 
fers materially from this plan. The American 
idea seems on the contrary to be a square house 
with a room in each corner, and all the servants' 
quarters stowed away in a basement. Cottage and 
palace go on reproducing that foolish and incon- 
venient arrangement indefinitely. 

After an hour's chat over our drinks, during 
which my host has rippled on from one subjed 
to another with the lightness of touch of a born 
talker, we get on to the subjed; of the grounds, 
and his plans for their improvement. 

Good luck has placed in Sardou's hands an old 
map of the gardens as they existed in the time 
of Louis XV., and several prints of the chateau 
dating from about the same epoch have found 
their way into his portfolios. The grounds are, 
under his care, slowly resuming the appearance of 
former days. Old avenues reopen, statues reap- 
pear on the disused pedestals, fountains play 
again, and clipped hedges once more line out the 
terraced walks. 

In order to explain how complete this work 
will be in time, Sardou hurries me off to inspe6l 
[ 223 ] 



THE W^rS OF 3iE0^ 

another part of his colledion. Down past the 
stables, in an unused corner of the grounds, long 
sheds have been ereded, under which is stored 
the debris of a dozen palaces, an assortment of 
eighteenth-century art that could not be dupli- 
cated even in France. 

One shed shelters an entire semicircle of 
treillage, pure Louis XV., an exquisite example 
of a lost art. Columns, domes, panels, are packed 
away in straw awaiting resurredion in some cor- 
ner hereafter to be chosen, A dozen seats in rose- 
colored marble from Fontainebleau are huddled 
together near by in company with a row of gi- 
gantic marble masques brought originally from 
Italy to decorate Fouquet's fountains at his cha- 
teau of Vaux in the short day of its glory. Just 
how this latter find is to be utilized their owner 
has not yet decided. The problem, however, to 
judge from his manner, is as important to the 
great playwright as the plot of his next drama. 

That the blood of an antiquarian runs in Sar- 
dou's veins is evident in the subdued excitement 
with which he shows you his possessions — stat- 
ues from Versailles, forged gates and balconies 
from Saint Cloud, the carved and gilded wood- 
work for a dozen rooms culled from the four 
corners of France. Like the true dramatist, he 
has, however, kept his finest effed for the last. 
In the centre of a circular rose garden near by 
stands, alone in its beauty, a column from the fa- 
cade of the Tuileries, as perfed from base to 

[ 224 ] 



SARDOU ^T m ARLT-LE-'F^Or 

flower-crowned capital as when Philibert De- 
lorme's workmen laid down their tools. 

Years ago Sardou befriended a young stone 
mason, who through this timely aid prospered, 
and, becoming later a rich builder, received in 
1882 from the city of Paris the contrad: to tear 
down the burned ruins of the Tuileries. While 
inspeding the palace before beginning the work 
of demolition, he discovered one column that 
had by a curious chance escaped both the flames 
of the Commune and the patriotic ardor of 1793, 
which eff*aced all royal emblems from church and 
palace alike. Remembering his benefactor's love 
for antiquities with historical associations, the 
grateful contractor appeared one day at Marly 
with this column on a dray, and insisted on erect- 
ing it where it now stands, pointing out to Sardou 
with pride the crowned "H," of Henri Quatre, 
and the entwined " M. M." of Marie de Medicis, 
topped by the Florentine lily in the flutings of 
the shaft and on the capital. 

A question of mine on Sardou's manner of 
working led to our abandoning the gardens and 
mounting to the top floor of the chateau, where 
his enormous library and collec5lion of prints are 
stored in a series of little rooms or alcoves, lighted 
from the top and opening on a corridor which 
runs the length of the building. In each room 
stands a writing-table and a chair; around the walls 
from floor to ceiling and in huge portfolios are 
arranged his books and engravings according to 
[ 225 ] 



THE W^rS OF mED^ 

their subjed:. The Empire alcove, for instance, 
contains nothing but publications and pidiures 
relating to that epoch. Roman and Greek history 
have their alcoves, as have mediaeval history and 
the reigns of the different- Louis. Nothing could 
well be conceived more conducive to study than 
this arrangement, and it makes one realize how 
honest was the master's reply when asked what 
was his favorite amusement. "Work!" answered 
the author. 

Our conversation, as was fated, soon turned to 
the enormous success of Robespierre in London 
— a triumph that even Sardou's many brilliant 
vi6lories had not yet equalled. 

It is charaderistic of the French disposition 
that neither the author nor any member of his 
family could summon courage to undertake the 
prodigious journey from Paris to London in or- 
der to see the first performance. Even Sardou's 
business agent, M. Roget, did not get further 
than Calais, where his courage gave out. "The 
sea was so terrible ! " Both those gentlemen, how- 
ever, took it quite as a matter of course that 
Sardou's American agent should make a three- 
thousand-mile journey to be present at the first 
night. 

The fad that the French author resisted Sir 
Henry Irving's pressing invitations to visit him 
in no way indicates a lack of interest in the suc- 
cess of the play. I had just arrived from London, 
and so had to go into every detail of the per- 
[ 226 ] 



SARDOU ^r m ARLT-LE-'B^Or 

formance, a rather delicate task, as I had been 
discouraged with the adiing of both Miss Terry 
and Irving, who have neither of them the age, 
voice, nor temperament to represent either the 
revolutionary tyrant or the woman he betrayed. 
As the staging had been excellent, I enlarged 
on that side of the subjed:, but when pressed into 
a corner by the author, had to acknowledge that 
in the scene where Robespierre, alone at midnight 
in the Conciergerie, sees the phantoms of his vic- 
tims advance from the surrounding shadows and 
form a menacing circle around him, Irving had 
used his poor voice with so little skill that there 
was little left for the splendid climax, when, in 
trying to escape from his ghastly visitors, Robe- 
spierre finds himself face to face with Marie An- 
toinette, and with a wild cry, half of horror, half 
of remorse, falls back insensible. 

In spite of previous good resolutions, I must 
have given the author the impression that Sir 
Henry spoke too loud at the beginning of this 
scene and was in consequence inadequate at the 
end. 

"What!" cried Sardou. "He raised his voice 
in that ad:! Why, it 's a scene to be played with 
the soft pedal down! This is the way it should 
be done!" Dropping into a chair in the middle 
of the room my host began miming the gestures 
and expression of Robespierre as the phantoms 
(which, after all, are but the figments of an over- 
wrought brain) gather around him. Gradually he 
[ 227 ] 



THE W^rS OF 3IE3^ 

slipped to the floor, hiding his face with his up- 
raised elbow, whispering and sobbing, but never 
raising his voice until, staggering toward the por- 
tal to escape, he meets the Queen face to face. 
Then the whole force of his voice came out in 
one awful cry that fairly froze the blood in my 
veins! 

"What a teacher you would make!" instinc- 
tively rose to my lips as he ended. 

With a careless laugh, Sardou resumed his 
shabby velvet cap, which had fallen to the floor, 
and answered: "Oh, it 's nothing! I only wanted 
to prove to you that the scene was not a fati- 
guing one for the voice if played properly. I 'm 
no ad:or and could not teach, but any one ought 
to know enough not to shout in that scene!" 

This with some bitterness, as news had arrived 
that Irving's voice had given out the night be- 
fore, and he had been replaced by his half-baked 
son in the title role, a change hardly calculated 
to increase either the box-office receipts or the 
success of the new drama. 

Certain ominous shadows which, like Robe- 
spierre's visions, had been for some time gather- 
ing in the corners of the room warned me that 
the hour had come for my trip back to Paris. 
Declining reluctantly an invitation to take pot- 
luck with my host, I was soon in the Avenue 
of the Sphinx again. As we strolled along, talking 
of the past and its charm, a couple of men passed 
us, carrying a piece of furniture rolled in burlaps. 
[ 228 ] 



SARDOU ^r m ARLY-LE-li^OY 

" Another acquisition ? " I asked. " What epoch 
has tempted you this time?" 

"I 'm sorry you won't stop and insped; it," 
answered Sardou with a twinkle in his eye. "It 's 
something I bought yesterday for my bedroom. 
An armchair! Pure Loubet!" 



[ 229 ] 



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Nr ^ Nr ^ ^ ^ Y Y Y ▼ 7* V Y ▼ ▼ ▼ ▼ V' ▼ ^ ▼ Y ▼ Y ▼ Y ▼ ^ ▼ 

iV''- 28 

Inconsistencies 



THE dinner had been unusually long and 
the summer evening warm. During the 
wait before the dancing began I must 
have dropped asleep in the dark corner of the 
piazza where I had installed myself, to smoke 
my cigar, away from the other men and their tire- 
some chatter of golf and racing. Through the 
open window groups of women could be seen in 
the ball-room, and the murmur of their conver- 
sation floated out, mingling with the laughter of 
the men. 

Suddenly, in that casual way peculiar to dreams, 
I found myself conversing with a solemn young 
Turk, standing in all the splendor of fez and 
stambouline beside my chair. 

"Pardon, Eflfendi," he was murmuring. "Is 
this an American ball ? I was asked at nine o'clock ; 
it is now past eleven. Is there not some mistake?" 

"None," I answered. "When a hostess puts 
nine o'clock on her card of invitation she ex- 
pedls her guests at eleven or half-past, and would 
be much embarrassed to be taken literally." 

As we were speaking, our host rose. The men, 
reluctantly throwing away their cigars, began to 
enter the ball-room through the open windows. 
On their approach the groups of women broke 
up, the men joining the girls where they sat, or 

[ 230 ] 



inco:j^sistencies 



inviting them out to the lantern-lit piazza, where 
the couples retired to dim, palm-embowered cor- 
ners. 

"Are you sure I have not made a mistake?" 
asked my interlocutor, with a faint quiver of the 
eyelids. "It is my intention, while travelling, to 
remain faithful to my harem." 

I hastened to reassure him and explain that 
he was in an exclusive and reserved society. 

" Indeed," he murmured incredulously. 
"When I was passing through New York last 
winter a lady was pointed out to me as the owner 
of marvellous jewels and vast wealth, but with 
absolutely no social position. My informant 
added that no well-born woman would receive 
her or her husband. 

"It's foolish, of course, but the handsome 
woman with the crown on, sitting in the centre 
of that circle, looks very like the woman I mean. 
Am I right ?" 

"It's the same lady," I answered, wearily. 
"You are speaking of last year. No one could be 
induced to call on the couple then. Now we all go 
to their house, and entertain them in return." 

"They have doubtless done some noble ac- 
tion, or the reports about the husband have been 
proved false?" 

"Nothing of the kind has taken place. She's 
a success, and no one asks any questions! In 
spite of that, you are in a society where the stan- 
dard of condud is held higher than in any coun- 

[ 231 ] 



THE W^rS OF mEOi^ 

try of Europe, by a race of women more virtu- 
ous, in all probability, than has yet been seen. 
There is not a man present," I added, "who 
would presume to take, or a woman who would 
permit, a liberty so slight even as the resting of 
a youth's arm across the back of her chair." 

While I was speaking, an invisible orchestra 
began to sigh out the first passionate bars of a 
waltz. A dozen couples rose, the men clasping 
in their arms the slender matrons, whose smiling 
faces sank to their partners' shoulders. A blond 
mustache brushed the forehead of a girl as she 
swept by us to the rhythm of the music, and other 
cheeks seemed about to touch as couples glided 
on in unison. 

The sleepy Oriental eyes of my new acquaint- 
ance opened wide with astonishment. 

"This, you must understand," I continued, 
hastily, "is quite another matter. Those people 
are waltzing. It is considered perfed;ly proper, 
when the musicians over there play certain meas- 
ures, for men to take apparent liberties. Our 
women are infinitely self-respedling, and a man 
who put his arm around a woman (in public) 
while a different measure was being played, or 
when there was no music, would be ostracized 
from polite society." 

" I am beginning to understand," replied the 
Turk. "The husbands and brothers of these 
women guard them very carefully. Those men I 
see out there in the dark are doubtless with their 

[ 232 ] 



INCO:]^SISTENCIES 



wives and sisters, proteding them from the ad- 
vances of other men. Am I right?" 

"Of course you 're not right," I snapped out, 
beginning to lose my temper at his obtuseness. 
"No husband would dream of talking to his wife 
in public, or of sitting with her in a corner. Every 
one would be laughing at them. Nor could a sis- 
ter be induced to remain away from the ball-room 
with her brother. Those girls are * sitting out' 
with young men they like, indulging in a little 
innocent flirtation." 

"What is that?" he asked. "Flirtation?" 

"An American custom rather difficult to ex- 
plain. It may, however, be roughly defined as the 
art of leading a man a long way on the road to — 
nowhere!" 

"Women flirt with friends or acquaintances, 
never with members of their family?" 

"The husbands are those dejeded individuals 
wandering aimlessly about over there like lost 
souls. They are mostly rich men, who, having 
married beautiful girls for love, wear themselves 
out maintaining elaborate and costly establish- 
ments for them. In return for his labor a hus- 
band, however, enjoys but little of his wife's 
society, for a really fashionable woman can rarely 
be induced to go home until she has collapsed 
with fatigue. In consequence, she contributes lit- 
tle but 'nerves' and temper to the household. 
Her sweetest smiles, like her freshest toilets, 
are kept for the public. The husband is the last 

[ ^33 ] 



THE W^rS OF mEOX^ 

person considered in an American household. 
If you doubt what I say, look behind you. There 
is a newly married man speaking with his wife, 
and trying to persuade her to leave before the 
cotillion begins. Notice his apologetic air! He 
knows he is interrupting a tender conversation 
and taking an unwarrantable liberty. Nothing 
short of extreme fatigue would drive him to such 
an extremity. The poor millionnaire has hardly 
left his desk in Wall Street during the week, and 
only arrived this evening in time to dress for 
dinner. He would give a fair slice of his income 
for a night's rest. See! He has failed, and is 
lighting another cigar, preparing, with a sigh, 
for a long wait. It will be three before my lady 
is ready to leave." 

After a silence of some minutes, during which 
he appeared to be turning these remarks over in 
his mind, the young Oriental resumed: "The 
single men who absorb so much of your women's 
time and attention are doubtless the most dis- 
tinguished of the nation, — writers, poets, and 
statesmen?" 

I was obliged to confess that this was not the 
case ; that, on the contrary, the dancing bachelors 
were for the most part impecunious youths of ab- 
solutely no importance, asked by the hostess to 
fill in, and so lightly considered that a woman 
did not always recognize in the street her guests 
of the evening before. 

At this moment my neighbor's expression 

[ 234 ] 



INCOIJ^SISTENCIES 



changed from bewilderment to admiration, as a 
young and very lovely matron threw herself, 
panting, into a low chair at his side. Her decol- 
lete was so daring that the doubts of half an hour 
before were evidently rising afresh in his mind. 
Hastily resuming my task of mentor, I explained 
that a decollete corsage was an absolute rule for 
evening gatherings. A woman who appeared in 
a high bodice or with her neck veiled would be 
considered lacking in politeness to her hostess as 
much if she wore a bonnet. 

"With us, women go into the world to shine 
and charm. It is only natural they should use all 
the weapons nature has given them." 

"Very good!" exclaimed the astonished Otto- 
man. " But where will all this end? You began by 
allowing your women to appear in public with 
their faces unveiled, then you suppressed the fichu 
and the collarette, and now you rob them of half 
their corsage. Where, O Allah, will you stop?" 

"Ah!" I answered, laughing, "the tendency 
of civilization is to simplify; many things may 
yet disappear." 

" I understand perfectly. You have no preju- 
dices against women wearing in public toilets 
that we consider fitted only for strid; intimacy. 
In that case your ladies may walk about the 
streets in these costumes?" 

"Not at all!" I cried. "It would provoke a 
scandal if a woman were to be seen during the 
daytime in such attire, either at home or abroad. 

[ ^3S ] 



THE W^rS OF MEO^ 

The police and the law courts would interfere. 
Evening dress is intended only for reunions in 
private houses, or at most, to be worn at enter- 
tainments where the company is carefully se- 
leded and the men asked from lists prepared by 
the ladies themselves. No lady would wear a ball 
costume or her jewels in a building where the 
general public was admitted. In London great 
ladies dine at restaurants in full evening dress, 
but we Americans, Hke the French, consider 
that vulgar." 

"Yet, last winter," he said, "when passing 
through New York, I went to a great theatre, 
where there were an orchestra and many singing 
people. Were not those respedlable women I saw 
in the boxes? There were no moucharahies to 
screen them from the eyes of the pubHc. Were 
all the men in that building asked by special in- 
vitation? That could hardly be possible, for I 
paid an entrance fee at the door. From where 
I sat I could see that, as each lady entered her 
box, opera-glasses were fixed on her, and her 
* points,' as you say, discussed by the crowd of 
men in the corridors, who, apparently, belonged 
to quite the middle class." 

" My poor, innocent Padischa, you do not un- 
derstand at all. That was the opera, which makes 
all the difference. The husbands of those women 
pay enormous prices, expressly that their wives 
may exhibit themselves in public, decked in 
jewels and suggestive toilets. You could buy a 

[236] 



IN CO J^S ISTENCIES 



whole harem of fair Circassians for what one of 
those little square boxes costs. A lady whose 
entrance caused no sensation would feel bitterly 
disappointed. As a rule, she knows little about 
music, and cares still less, unless some singer is 
performing who is paid a fabulous price, which 
gives his notes a peculiar charm. With us most 
things are valued by the money they have cost. 
Ladies attend the opera simply and solely to see 
their friends and be admired. 

"It grieves me to see that you are forming a 
poor opinion of our womankind, for they are more 
charming and modest than any foreign women. A 
girl or matron who exhibits more of her shoulders 
than you, with your Eastern ideas, think quite 
proper, would sooner expire than show an inch 
above her ankle. We have our way of being mod- 
est as well as you, and that is one of our strong- 
est prejudices." 

"Now I know you are joking," he replied, 
with a slight show of temper, "or trying to mys- 
tify me, for only this morning I was on the beach 
watching the bathing, and I saw a number of 
ladies in quite short skirts — up to their knees, 
in fad — with the thinnest covering on their 
shapely extremities. Were those women above 
suspicion?" 

"Absolutely," I assured him, feeling inclined 
to tear my hair at such stupidity. "Can't you see 
the difference? That was in daylight. Our cus- 
toms allow a woman to show her feet, and even 

[ 237 ] 



THE fV^rS OF a4ED^ 

a little more, in the morning. It would be con- 
sidered the acme of indecency to let those beau- 
ties be seen at a ball. The law allows a woman 
to uncover her neck and shoulders at a ball, but 
she would be arrested if she appeared decollete 
on the beach of a morning." 

A long silence followed, broken only by the 
music and laughter from the ball-room. I could 
see my dazed Mohammedan remove his fez and 
pass an agitated hand through his dark hair; then 
he turned, and saluting me gravely, murmured: 

" It is very kind of you to have taken so much 
trouble with me. I do not doubt that what you 
have said is full of the wisdom and consistency of 
a new civilization, which I fail to appreciate." 
Then, with a sigh, he added: "It will be better 
for me to return to my own country, where there 
are fewer exceptions to rules." 

With a profound salaam the gentle youth dis- 
appeared into the surrounding darkness, leaving 
me rubbing my eyes and asking myself if, after 
all, the dreamland Oriental was not about right. 
Custom makes many inconsistencies appear so 
logical that they no longer cause us either sur- 
prise or emotion. But can we explain them? 



[238 ] 



N"- 29 
Modern 



"Cadets de Gascogne" 



AFTER witnessing the performance given 
by the Comedie Fran^aise in the antique 
L theatre at Orange, we determined — my 
companion and I — if ever another opportunity 
of the kind offered, to attend, be the material 
difficulties what they might. 

The theatrical "stars" in their courses proved 
favorable to the accomplishment of this vow. 
Before the year ended it was whispered to us 
that the "Cadets de Gascogne" were planning 
a tramp through the Cevennes Mountains and 
their native Languedoc — a sort of lay pilgrim- 
age to famous historic and literary shrines, a 
voyage to be enlivened by much crowning of 
busts and reciting of verses in the open air, and 
incidentally, by the eating of Gascony dishes and 
the degustation of delicate local wines; the whole 
to culminate with a representation in the arena 
at Beziers of Dejanire^ Louis Gallet's and Saint- 
Saens's latest work, under the personal supervi- 
sion of those two masters. 

A tempting programme, was it not, in these 
days of cockney tours and "Cook" couriers? At 
any rate, one that we, with plenty of time on our 
hands and a weakness for out-of-the-way corners 

[ 239 ] 



THE w^rs OF mED^ 

and untrodden paths, found it impossible to re- 
sist. 

Rostand, in Cyrano de Bergerac^ has shown us 
the " Cadets" of MoUere's time, a fighting, rhym- 
ing, devil-may-care band, who wore their hearts 
on their sleeves and chips on their stalwart shoul- 
ders; much such a brotherhood, in short, as we 
love to imagine that Shakespeare, Kit Marlowe, 
Greene, and their intimates formed when they 
met at the "Ship" to celebrate a success or drink 
a health to the drama. 

The men who compose the present society 
(which has now for many years borne a name only 
recently made famous by M. Rostand's genius) 
come delightfully near realizing the happy con- 
ditions of other days, and — less the fighting — 
form as joyous and pidiuresque a company as 
their historic elders. They are for the most part 
Southern-born youths, whose interests and am- 
bitions centre around the stage, devotees at the 
altar of Melpomene, ardent lovers of letters and 
kindred arts, and proud of the debt that literary 
France owes to Gascony. 

It is the pleasant custom of this coterie to 
meet on winter evenings in unfrequented cafes^ 
transformed by them for the time into clubs, 
where they recite new-made verses, discuss books 
and plays, enu nciate paradoxes that make the very 
waiters shudder, and, between their " bocks," plan 
vast revolutions in the world of literature. 

As the pursuit of "letters" is, if anything, less 

[ 240 ] 



MODERN ''CADETS DE QASCOGNE" 

lucrative in France than in other countries, the 
question of next day's dinner is also much dis- 
cussed among these budding Molieres, who are 
often forced to learn early in their careers, when 
meals have been meagre, to satisfy themselves with 
rich rhymes and drink their fill of flowing verse. 

From time to time older and more successful 
members of the corporation stray back into the 
circle, laying aside their laurel crowns and Olym- 
pian pose, in the society of the new-comers to Bo- 
hemia. These honorary members enjoy nothing 
more when occasion offers than to escape from 
the toils of greatness and join the "Cadets" in 
their summer journeys to and fro in France, trips 
which are made to combine the pleasures of an 
outing with the aims of a literary campaign. It 
was an invitation to join one of these tramps that 
tempted my friend and me away from Paris at 
the season when that city is at its best. Being un- 
able, on account of other engagements, to start 
with the cohort from the capital, we made a dash 
for it and caught them up at Carcassonne during 
the fetes that the little Languedoc city was of- 
fering to its guests. 

After having seen Aigues Mortes, it was difH- 
cult to believe that any other place in Europe 
could suggest more vividly the days of military 
feudalism. St. Louis's tiny city is, however, sur- 
passed by Carcassonne! 

Thanks to twenty years of studious restoration 
by Viollet le Due, this antique jewel shines in its 

[ 241 ] 



THE rV^rS OF 31 ED^ 

setting of slope and plain as perfed to-day (seen 
from the distance) as when the Crusaders started 
from its crenelated gates for the conquest of the 
Holy Sepulchre. The acropolis of Carcassonne 
is crowned with Gothic battlements, the golden 
polygon of whose walls, rising from Roman foun- 
dations and layers of ruddy Visigoth brick to the 
stately marvel of its fifty towers, forms a whole 
that few can view unmoved. 

We found the Cadets lunching on the platform 
of the great western keep, while a historic pageant 
organized in their honor was winding through 
the steep mediaeval streets — a cavalcade of arch- 
ers, men at arms, and many-colored troubadours, 
who, after effeding a triumphal entrance to the 
town over lowered drawbridges, mounted to un- 
furl their banner on our tower. As the gaudy stand- 
ard unfolded on the evening air, Mounet-Sully's 
incomparable voice breathed the very soul of the 
"Burgraves" across the silent plain and down 
through the echoing corridors below. While we 
were still under the impression of the stirring 
lines, he changed his key and whispered: — 

Le soir tombe. . . . Uheure douce 
^ui {kloigne sans secousse^ 
Pose a peine sur la mousse 

Ses pleds. 
JJn jour indecis persiste^ 
Et le cripuscule triste 
Ouvre ses yeux d' amhhyste 

Mouillh. 

[ 242 ] 



MODERN ''CADETS DE gJSCOGNE" 

Night came on ere the singing and reciting 
ended, a balmy Southern evening, Ht by a thou- 
sand fires from tower and battlement and moat, 
the old walls glowing red against the violet sky. 

Pidiure this scene to yourself, reader mine, and 
you will understand the enthusiasm of the art- 
ists and writers in our clan. It needed but little 
imagination then to reconstrud; the past and 
fancy one's self back in the days when the "Tran- 
cavel" held this city against the world. 

Sleep that night was filled with a strange phan- 
tasmagoria of crenelated chateaux and armored 
knights, until the bright Provencal sunlight and 
the call for a hurried departure dispelled such il- 
lusions. By noon we were far away from Car- 
cassonne, mounting the rocky slopes of the Ce- 
vennes amid a wild and noble landscape; the 
towering cliffs of the "Gausses," zebraed by zig- 
zag paths, lay below us, disclosing glimpses of 
fertile valley and vine-engarlanded plain. 

One asks one's self in wonder why these en- 
chanting regions are so unknown. En route our 
companions were like children fresh from school, 
taking haphazard meals at the local inns and 
clambering gayly into any conveyance that came 
to hand. As our way led us through the Ce- 
vennes country, another charm gradually stole 
over the senses. 

"I imagine that Citheron must look like 
this," murmured Catulle Mendes, as we stood 
looking down from a sun-baked eminence," with 

[ 243 ] 



THE W^YS OF 3^E0^ 

the Gulf of Corinth there where you see that 
gleam of water." As he spoke he began declaim- 
ing the passage from Sophocles's CEdipus the King 
descriptive of that classic scene. 

Two thousand feet below lay Ispanhac in a 
verdant valley, the River Tarn gleaming amid 
the cultivated fields like a cimeter thrown on a 
Turkish carpet. Our descent was an avalanche 
of laughing, singing "Cadets," who rolled in the 
fresh-cut grass and chased each other through the 
ripening vineyards, shouting lines from tragedies 
to groups of open-mouthed farm-hands, and in- 
vading the tiny inns on the road with song and 
tumult. As we neared our goal its entire popu- 
lation, headed by the cure, came out to meet us 
and offer the hospitality of the town. 

In the market-place, one of our number, in- 
spired by the antique solemnity of the surround- 
ings, burst into the noble lines of Hugo's Devant 
Dieu, before which the awestruck population 
uncovered and crossed themselves, imagining, 
doubtless, that it was a religious ceremony. 

Another scene recurs vividly to my memory. 
We were at St. Enimie. I had opened my win- 
dow to breathe the night air after the heat and 
dust of the day and watch the moonlight on the 
quaint bridge at my feet. Suddenly from out 
the shadows there rose (like sounds in a dream) 
the exquisite tone of Sylvain's voice, alternating 
with the baritone of d'Esparbes. They were 
seated at the water's edge, intoxicated by the 

[ ^44 ] 



MODERN ''CADETS DE QJSCOGNE" 

beauty of the scene and apparently oblivious of 
all else. 

The next day was passed on the Tarn, our ten 
little boats following each other single file on the 
narrow river, winding around the feet of mighty 
cliffs, or wandering out into sunny pasture lands 
where solitary peasants, interrupted in their labors, 
listened in astonishment to the chorus thundered 
from the passing boats, and waved us a welcome 
as we moved by. 

Space is lacking to give more than a sugges- 
tion of those days, passed in every known con- 
veyance from the antique diligence to the hiss- 
ing trolley, in company with men who seemed 
to have left their cares and their years behind 
them in Paris. 

Our last stop before arriving at Beziers was 
at La Case, where luncheon was served in the 
great hall of the chateau. Armand Sylvestre pre- 
sided at the repast; his verses alternated with the 
singing of Emma Calve, who had come from her 
neighboring chateau to greet her old friends and 
compatriots, the "Cadets." 

As the meal terminated, more than one among 
the guests, I imagine, felt his heart heavy with 
the idea that to-morrow would end this pleasant 
ramble and send him back to the realities of life 
and the drudgery of daily bread-winning. 

The morning of the great day dawned cloud- 
less and cool. A laughing, many-colored throng 
early invaded the arena, the women's gay toi- 

[ 245 ] 



THE iv^rs OF mED^ 

lets lending it some resemblance to a parterre 
of fantastic flowers. Before the bell sounded its 
three strokes that announced the representation, 
over ten thousand spectators had taken their 
places and were studying the gigantic stage and 
its four thousand yards of painted canvas. In the 
foreground a cluster of Greek palaces and temples 
surround a market-place ; higher up and further 
back the city walls, manned by costumed senti- 
nels, rise against mountains so happily painted 
that their outlines blend with nature's own handi- 
work in the distance, — a worthy setting for a 
stately drama and the valiant company of adors 
who have travelled from the capital for this so- 
lemnity. 

Three hundred hidden musicians, divided into 
wind and chord orchestras, accompany a chorus 
of two hundred executants, and furnish the music 
for a ballet of seventy dancers. 

As the third stroke dies away, the Muse, Ma- 
demoiselle Rabuteau, enters and declaims the sal- 
utation addressed by Louis Gallet to the City of 
Beziers. At its conclusion the tragedy begins. 

This is not the place to describe or criticise 
at length so new an attempt at classic restoration. 
The author follows the admirable fable of an- 
tiquity with a directness and simplicity worthy 
of his Greek model. The story of Dejanira and 
Hercules is too familiar to be repeated here. The 
hero's infidelity and the passion of a negleCted 
woman are related through five ads logically and 

[ ^46 ] 



MODERN ''CADETS DE QASCOGNE'' 

forcibly, with the noble music of Saint-Saens as 
a background. 

We watch the growing afFe6tion of the demi- 
god for the gentle lole. We sympathize with 
jealous, desperate Dejanira when in a last at- 
tempt to gain back the love of Hercules she 
persuades the unsuspeding lole to offer him a 
tunic steeped in Nessus's blood, which Dejanira 
has been told by Centaur will when warmed in the 
sun restore the wearer to her arms. 

At the opening of the fifth ad: we witness the 
nuptial fetes. Religious dances and processions 
circle around the pyre laid for a marriage sacri- 
fice. Dejanira, hidden in the throng, watches in an 
agony of hope for the miracle to be worked. 

Hercules accepts the fatal garment from the 
hands of his bride and calls upon the sun-god to 
ignite the altars. The pyre flames, the heat warms 
the clinging tunic, which wraps Hercules in its 
folds of torture. Writhing in agony, he flings 
himself upon the burning pyramid, followed by 
Dejanira, who, in despair, sees too late that she 
has been but a tool in the hands of Nessus. 

No feeble prose, no charadlers of black or 
white, can do justice to the closing scenes of this 
performance. The roar of the chorus, the thun- 
der of the adtors' voices, the impression of reality 
left on the breathless spectators by the open-air 
reality of the scene, the ardent sun, the rustling 
wind, the play of light and shade across the stage, 
the invocation of Hercules addressed to the real 

[ 247 ] 



THE W^rS OF mED^ 

heavens, not to a painted firmament, combined 
an effed that few among that vast concourse will 
forget. 

At the farewell banquet in the arena after the 
performance, Georges Leygues, the captain of 
the Cadets, in answer to a speech from the Pre- 
fed:, replied: "You ask about our aims and pur- 
poses and speak in admiration of the enthusiasm 
aroused by the passage of our band! 

" Our aims are to vivify the traditions and lan- 
guage of our native land, and the memory of a 
glorious ancestry, to foster the love of our little 
province at the same time as patriotism for the 
greater country. We are striving for a decentrali- 
zation of art, for the elevation of the stage; but 
above all, we preach a gospel of gayety and 
healthy laughter, the science of remaining young 
at heart, would teach pluck and good humor in 
the weary struggle of existence, charaderistics that 
have marked our countrymen through history! 
We have borrowed a motto from Lope de Vega 
(that Gascon of another race), and inscribed 
'■Par la langua et par Vepee ' upon our banner, 
that these purposes may be read by the world as 
it runs." 



[ 248 ] 



JSfo. 20 

The Dinner and the Drama 



CLAUDE Frollo, holding the first 
printed book he had seen in one hand, 
and pointing with the other to the gigan- 
tic mass of Notre Dame, dark against the sunset, 
prophesied "Cd-a tuera ce/a." One might to-day- 
paraphrase the sentence which Vi6lor Hugo put 
into his archdeacon's mouth, and pointing to 
the elaborately appointed dinner-tables of our 
generation, assert that the Dinner was killing the 
Drama. 

New York undoubtedly possesses at this mo- 
ment more and better constructed theatres, in 
proportion to its population, than any other city 
on the globe, and, with the single exception of 
Paris, more money is probably spent at the 
theatre by our people than in any other me- 
tropolis. Yet curiously enough, each decade, 
each season widens the breach between our dis- 
criminating public and the stage. The theatre, 
instead of keeping abreast with the intelledual 
movement of our country, has for the last thirty 
years been slowly but steadily declining, until at 
this moment there is hardly a company play- 
ing in legitimate comedy, tragedy, or the classic 
masterpieces of our language. 

In spite of the fa6l that we are a nation in full 
literary produdion, boasting authors who rank 

[ 249 ] 



THE m^rS OF MED^ 

with the greatest of other countries, there is 
hardly one poet or prose-writer to-day, of recog- 
nized ability, who works for the stage, nor can 
we count more than one or two high-class come- 
dies or lyric dramas of American origin. 

It is not my intention here to criticise the con- 
temporary stage, although the condition of the 
drama in America is so unique and so different 
from its situation in other countries that it might 
well attradl the attention of inquiring minds; but 
rather to glance at the social causes which have 
produced this curious state of affairs, and the 
strained relations existing between our elite (here 
the word is used in its widest and most elevated 
sense) and our stage. 

There can be little doubt that the deterioration 
in the class of plays produced at our theatres has 
been brought about by changes in our social con- 
ditions. The pernicious "star" system, the diffi- 
culty of keeping stock companies together, the 
rarity of histrionic ability among Americans are 
explanations which have at different times been 
offered to account for these phenomena. Fore- 
most, however, among the causes should be 
placed an exceedingly simple and prosaic fad: 
which seems to have escaped notice. I refer to the 
displacement of the dinner hour, and the cere- 
mony now surrounding that meal. 

Forty years ago dinner was still a simple affair, 
taken at hours varying from three to five o'clock, 
and uniting few but the members of a family, 

[ 250 ] 



THE DINNE1{^ AND THE DRAMA 

holidays and fetes being the rare occasions when 
guests were asked. There was probably not a 
hotel in this country at that time where a dinner 
was served later than three o'clock, and Del- 
monico's, newly installed in Mr. Moses Grin- 
nell's house, corner of Fourteenth Street and 
Fifth Avenue, was the only establishment of its 
kind in America, and the one restaurant in New 
York where ladies could be taken to dine. In 
those tranquil days when dinner parties were few 
and dances a rarity, theatre-going was the one 
ripple on the quiet stream of home life. Wal- 
lace's, at the corner of Thirteenth Street and 
Broadway, Booth's in Twenty-third Street, and 
Fechter's in Fourteenth Street were the homes of 
good comedy and high-class tragedy. 

Along about 1870 the more aristocratically- 
minded New Yorkers took to dining at six or 
six-thirty o'clock; since then each decade has seen 
the dinner recede further into the night, until it 
is a common occurrence now to sit down to that 
repast at eight or even nine o'clock. Not only 
has the hour changed, but the meal itself has 
undergone a radical transformation, in keeping 
with the general increase of luxurious living, 
becoming a serious although hurried fundion. 
In consequence, to go to the theatre and be 
present at the rising of the curtain means, for 
the majority possessing sufficient means to go 
often to the play and culture enough to be dis- 
criminating, the disarrangement of the entire ma- 

[ ^5- ] 



THE W^rS OF 3IE0^ 

chinery of a household as well as the habits of 
its inmates. 

In addition to this, dozens of sumptuous es- 
tablishments have sprung up where the pleasure 
of eating is supplemented by allurements to the 
eye and ear. Fine orchestras play nightly, the air 
is laden with the perfume of flowers, a scenic per- 
spedlive of palm garden and marble corridor flat- 
ters the senses. The temptation, to a man wearied 
by a day of business or sport, to abandon the idea 
of going to a theatre, and linger instead over his 
cigar amid these attractive surroundings, is almost 
irresistible. 

If, however, tempted by some success, he hur- 
ries his guests away from their meal, they are 
in no condition to appreciate a serious perfor- 
mance. The pressure has been too high all day 
for the overworked man and his enervee wife to 
desire any but the lightest tomfoolery in an en- 
tertainment. People engaged in the lethargic 
process of digestion are not good critics of either 
elevated poetry or delicate interpretation, and in 
consequence crave amusement rather than a men- 
tal stimulant. 

Managers were quick to perceive that their 
produdlions were no longer taken seriously, and 
that it was a waste of time and money to ofl^er 
high-class entertainments to audiences whom any 
nonsense would attrad. When a play like The 
Swell Miss FitzwellwWX pack a New York house 
for months, and then float a company on the high 

[ 252 ] 



THE DINNE1{^ AND THE DRAMA 

tide of success across the continent, it would be 
folly to produce anything better. New York in- 
fluences the taste of the country ; it is in New 
York really that the standard has been lowered. 

In answer to these remarks, the question will 
doubtless be raised, " Are not the influences which 
it is asserted are killing the drama in America at 
work in England or on the Continent, where peo- 
ple also dine late and well?" 

Yes, and no ! People abroad dine as well, un- 
doubtedly; as elaborately? Certainly not! With 
the exception of the English (and even among 
them dinner-giving has never become so univer- 
sal as with us), no other people entertain for the 
pleasure of hospitality. On the Continent, a din- 
ner-party is always an "axe-grinding" fundlion. 
A family who asked people to dine without hav- 
ing a distindt end in view for such an outlay would 
be looked upon by their friends and relatives as 
little short of lunatics. Diplomatists are allowed 
certain sums by their governments for entertain- 
ing, and are formally dined in return by their 
guests. A great French lady who is asked to dine 
out twice a week considers herself fortunate; a 
New York woman of equal position hardly dines 
at home from December i to April 1 5, unless she 
is receiving friends at her own table. 

Parisian ladies rarely go to restaurants. In 
London there are not more than three or four 
places where ladies can be taken to dine, while 
in this city there are hundreds ; our people have 

[ ^s:^ ] 



THE W^rS OF mED<^ 

caught the habit of dining away from home, a 
custom singularly in keeping with the American 
temperament; for, although it costs more, it is 
less trouble! 

The reason why foreigners do not entertain 
at dinner is because they have found other and 
more satisfa6lory ways of spending their money. 
This leaves people abroad with a number of 
evenings on their hands, unoccupied hours that 
are generally passed at the theatre. Only the other 
day a diplomatist said to me, "I am surprised 
to see how small a place the theatre occupies in 
your thoughts and conversation. With us it is 
the pivot around which life revolves." 

From one cause or another, not only the 
wealthy, but the thoughtful and cultivated among 
us, go less each year to the theatre. The absti- 
nence of this class is the most significant, for well- 
read, refined, fastidious citizens are the pride of a 
community, and their influence for good is far- 
reaching. Of this elite New York has more than 
its share, but you will not meet them at the play, 
unless Duse or Jefferson, Bernhardt or Coquelin 
is performing. The best only tempts such minds. 
It was by the encouragement of this class that 
Booth was enabled to give Hamlet one hundred 
consecutive evenings, and Fechter was induced 
to linger here and build a theatre. 

In comparison with the verdids of such peo- 
ple, the opinions of fashionable sets are of little 
importance. The latter long ago gave up going 

[ 254 ] 



THE DINNER AND THE DRAM J 

to the play in New York, except during two short 
seasons, one in the autumn, "before things get 
going," and again in the spring, after the season 
is over, before they flit abroad or to the country. 
During these periods "smart" people generally 
attend in bands called "theatre parties," an in- 
flidlion unknown outside of this country, an ar- 
rangement above all others calculated to bring the 
stage into contempt, as such parties seldom ar- 
rive before the middle of the second ad, take ten 
minutes to get seated, and then chat gayly among 
themselves for the rest of the evening. 

The theatre, having ceased to form an integral 
part of our social life, has come to be the pastime 
of people with nothing better to do, — the float- 
ing population of our hotels, the shop-girl and 
her young man enjoying an evening out. The 
plays produced by the gentlemen who, I am told, 
control the stage in this country for the moment, 
are adapted to the requirements of an audience 
that, having no particular standard from which 
to judge the literary merits of a play, the training, 
accent, or talent of the ad:ors, are perfectly con- 
tented so long as they are amused. To get a laugh, 
at any price, has become the ambition of most 
adors and the dream of managers. 

A young adtress in a company that played an 
American translation of Mme. Sans Gene all over 
this continent asked me recently what I thought 
of their performance. I said I thought it "a bur- 
lesque of the original ! " " If you thought it a bur- 

[^55 ] 



THE W^rS OF mED^ 

lesque here in town," she answered, "it's well 
you did n't see us on the road. There was no 
monkey trick we would not play to raise a laugh." 

If one of my readers doubts the assertion that 
the better classes have ceased to attend our thea- 
tres, except on rare occasions, let him inquire 
about, among the men and women whose opin- 
ions he values and respects, how many of last 
winter's plays they considered intelledtual treats, 
or what piece tempted them to leave their cosy 
dinner-tables a second time. It is surprising to 
find the number who will answer in reply to a 
question about the merits of a play en vogue, " I 
have not seen it. In fad: I rarely go to a theatre 
unless I am in London or on the Continent!" 

Little by little we have taken to turning in a 
vicious and ever-narrowing circle. The poorer 
the plays, the less clever people will make the 
effort necessary to see them, and the less such 
elite attend, the poorer the plays will become. 

That this state of affairs is going to last, how- 
ever, I do not believe. The darkest hour is ever 
the last before the dawn. As it would be difficult 
for the performances in most of our theatres to 
fall any lower in the scale of frivolity or inanity, 
we may hope for a readlion that will be deep and 
far-reaching. At present we are like people dying 
of starvation because they do not know how to 
combine the flour and water and yeast before 
them into wholesome bread. The materials for 
a brilliant and distindly national stage undoubt- 

[ ^56] 



THE DINNET{^ AND THE DRAMA 

edly exist in this country. We have men and 
women who would soon develop into great ac- 
tors if they received any encouragement to de- 
vote themselves to a higher class of work, and 
certainly our great city does not possess fewer 
appreciative people than it did twenty years ago. 

The great dinner-giving mania will eat itself 
out; and managers, feeling once more that they 
can count on discriminating audiences, will no 
longer dare to give garbled versions of French 
farces or feeble dramas compiled from English 
novels, but, turning to our own poets and wri- 
ters, will ask them to contribute towards the for- 
mation of an American stage literature. 

When, finally, one of our poets gives us a 
lyric drama like Cyrano de Bergerac^ the attrac- 
tions of the dinner-table will no longer be strong 
enough to keep clever people away from the 
theatre, and the following conversation, which 
sums up the present situation, will become im- 
possible. 

Banker (to Crushed Tragedian). — No, I 
have n't seen you ad:. I have not been inside 
a theatre for two years ! 

C. T, — It 's five years since I 've been inside 
a bank! 



[ 257 ] 



JSfo. 31 

The Modern Aspasia 



MOST of the historic cities of Europe 
have a distind: local color, a temper- 
ament, if one may be allowed the ex- 
pression, of their own. The austere calm of 
Bruges or Ghent, the sensuous beauty of Na- 
ples, attradl different natures. Florence has pas- 
sionate devotees, who are insensible to the ar- 
tistic grace of Venice or the stately quiet of Ver- 
sailles. In Cairo one experiences an exquisite 
hien etre, a mindless, ambitionless contentment 
which, without being languor, soothes the nerves 
and tempts to indolent lotus-eating. Like a great 
hive, Rome depends on the memories that circle 
around her, storing, like bees, the centuries with 
their honey. Each of these cities must therefore 
leave many people unmoved, who after a pass- 
ing visit, wander away, wondering at the enthu- 
siasm of the worshippers. 

Paris alone seems to possess the charm that 
bewitches all conditions, all ages, all degrees. To 
hold the frivolous-minded she paints her face 
and dances, leading them a round of folly, ex- 
haustive alike to health and purse. For the stu- 
dent she assumes another mien, smiling encour- 
agement, and urging him upward towards the 
highest standards, while posing as his model. 
She takes the dreaming lover of the past gently 

[ 258 ] 



THE m OD ER:H^ ^SPJSIA 

by the hand, and leading him into quiet streets 
and squares where she has stored away a wealth 
of hidden treasure, enslaves him as completely 
as her more sensual admirers. 

Paris is no less adored by the vacant-minded, 
to whom neither art nor pleasure nor study ap- 
peal. Her caprices in fashion are received by 
the wives and daughters of the universe as laws, 
and obeyed with an unwavering faith, a mute 
obedience that few religions have commanded. 
Women who yawn through Italy and the East 
have, when one meets them in the French capi- 
tal, the intense manner, the air of separation from 
things mundane, that is observable in pilgrims 
approaching the shrine of their deity. Moham- 
medans at Mecca must have some such look. 
In Paris women find themselves in the presence 
of those high priests whom they have long wor- 
shipped from a distance. It is useless to mention 
other subjects to the devotee, for they will not 
fix her attention. Her thoughts are with her 
heart, and that is far away. 

When visiting other cities one feels that they 
are like honest married women, living quiet 
family lives, surrounded by their children. The 
French Aspasia, on the contrary, has never been 
true to any vow, but has, at the dictate of her 
passions, changed from royal and imperial to 
republican lovers, and back again, ruled by no 
laws but her caprices, and discarding each favor- 
ite in turn with insults when she has wearied of 

[ -^ss ] 



THE WtATS OF mEO^ 

him. Yet sovereigns are her slaves, and leave 
their lands to linger in her presence; and rich 
strangers from the four corners of the earth come 
to throw their fortunes at her feet and bask a 
moment in her smiles. 

Like her classic prototype, Paris is also the 
companion of the philosophers and leads the arts 
in her train. Her palaces are the meeting-places 
of the poets, the sculptors, the dramatists, and 
the painters, who are never weary of celebrating 
her perfections, nor of working for her adorn- 
ment and amusement. 

Those who live in the circle of her influence 
are caught up in a whirlwind of artistic produc- 
tion, and consume their brains and bodies in the 
vain hope of pleasing their idol and attracting her 
attention. To be loved by Paris is an ordeal that 
few natures can stand, for she wrings the life- 
blood from her devotees and then casts them 
aside into oblivion. Paris, said one of her greatest 
writers, '"'' aime a hriser ses idoles!'' As Ulysses 
and his companions fell, in other days, a prey 
to the allurements of Circe, so our powerful 
young nation has fallen more than any other un- 
der the influence of the French siren, and brings 
her a yearly tribute of gold which she receives 
with avidity, although in her heart there is little 
fondness for the giver. 

Americans who were in Paris two years ago 
had an excellent opportunity of judging the sin- 
cerity of Parisian affeClion, and of sounding the 
[ 260 ] 



THE m O D er:}^ ^spasia 

depth and unselfishness of the love that this fic- 
kle city gives us in return for our homage. Not 
for one moment did she hesitate, but threw the 
whole weight of her influence and wit into the 
scale for Spain. If there is not at this moment a 
European alliance against America it is not from 
any lack of effort on her part towards that end. 

The stand taken by la ville lumiere in that 
crisis caused many naive Americans, who be- 
lieved that their weakness for the French capital 
was returned, a painful surprise. They imagined 
in the simplicity of their innocent hearts that she 
loved them for themselves, and have awakened, 
like other rich lovers, to the humiliating knowl- 
edge that a penniless neighbor was receiving 
the caresses that Croesus paid for. Not only did 
the entire Parisian press teem at that moment 
with covert insults direded towards us, but in 
society, at the clubs and tables of the aristocracy, 
it was impossible for an American to appear with 
self-respedl, so persistently were our actions and 
our reasons for undertaking that war misunder- 
stood and misrepresented. In the conversation 
of the salons and in the daily papers it was as- 
sumed that the Spanish were a race of noble pa- 
triots, fighting in the defence of a loved and loyal 
colony, while we were a horde of blatant cowards, 
who had long fermented a revolution in Cuba 
in order to appropriate that coveted island. 

When the Spanish authorities allowed an 
American ship (surprised in one of her ports by 

[261 ] 



THE TV^rS OF mE3^ 

the declaration of war) to depart unharmed, the 
fa(5t was magnified into an ad: of almost ideal 
generosity; on the other hand, when we decided 
not to permit privateering, that announcement 
was received with derisive laughter as a preten- 
tious pose to cover hidden interests. There is 
reason to believe, however, that this feeling in 
favor of Spain goes little further than the press 
and the aristocratic circles so dear to the Ameri- 
can "climber"; the real heart of the French na- 
tion is as true to us as when a century ago she 
spent blood and treasure in our cause. It is the 
inconstant capital alone that, false to her role of 
liberator, has sided with the tyrant. 

Yet when I wander through her shady parks 
or lean over her monumental quays, drinking 
in the beauty of the first spring days, intoxicated 
by the perfume of the flowers that the night 
showers have kissed into bloom; or linger of an 
evening over my coffee, with the brilliant life of 
the boulevards passing like a carnival procession 
before my eyes; when I sit in her theatres, en- 
thralled by the genius of her adlors and play- 
wrights, or stand bewildered before the ten thou- 
sand paintings and statues of the Salon, I feel 
inclined, like a betrayed lover, to pardon my 
faithless mistress: she is too lovely to remain 
long angry with her. You realize she is false 
and will betray you again, laughing at you, in- 
sulting your weakness; but when she smiles all 
faults are forgotten; the ardor of her kisses blinds 
[ 262 ] 



THE m OD ERO^ ^SPJSIJ 

you to her inconstancy; she pours out a draught 
that no other hands can brew, and clasps you in 
arms so fair that Hfe outside those fragile barriers 
seems stale and unprofitable. 



[263 ] 



N"- 32 

A Nation in a Hurry 

IN early days of steam navigation on the 
Mississippi, the river captains, it is said, had 
the playful habit, when pressed for time or 
enjoying a "spurt" with a rival, of running their 
engines with a darky seated on the safety-valve. 

One's first home impression after a season of 
lazy Continental travelling and visiting in som- 
nolent English country houses, is that an em- 
blematical Ethiopian should be quartered on our 
national arms. 

Zola tells us in Nouvelle Campagne that his 
vivid impressions are all received during the first 
twenty-four hours in a new surrounding, — the 
mind, like a photographic film, quickly losing 
its sensibility. 

This fleeting receptiveness makes returning 
Americans painfully conscious of nerves in the 
home atmosphere, and the headlong pace at 
which our compatriots are living. 

The habit of laying such faults to the climate 
is but a poor excuse. Our grandparents and their 
parents lived peaceful lives beneath these same 
skies, undisturbed by the morbid influences that 
are supposed to key us to such a painful concert 
pitch. 

There was an Indian summer languor in the 
air as we steamed up the bay last Odober, that 

[ 264 ] 



^ NJTI0:H^ in ^ HURRY 

apparently invited repose; yet no sooner had we 
set foot on our native dock, and taken one good 
whifFof home air, than all our acquired calm dis- 
appeared. People who ten days before would 
have sat (at a journey's end) contentedly in a 
waiting-room, while their luggage was being 
sorted by leisurely officials, now hustle nervously 
about, nagging the custom-house officers and 
egging on the porters, as though the saving of 
the next half hour were the prime objed: of ex- 
istence. 

Considering how extravagant we Americans 
are in other ways it seems curious that we should 
be so economical of time! It was useless to strug- 
gle against the current, however, or to attempt 
to hold one's self back. Before ten minutes on 
shore had passed, the old, familiar, unpleasant 
sensation of being in a hurry took possession of 
me! It was irresistible and all-pervading; from 
the movements of the crowds in the streets to the 
whistle of the harbor tugs, everything breathed 
of haste. The very dogs had apparently no time 
to loiter, but scurried about as though late for 
their engagements. 

The transit from dock to hotel was like a visit 
to a new circle in the /«/^r«(9, where trains rumble 
eternally overhead, and cable cars glide and block 
around a pale-faced throng of the damned, who 
are forced, in expiation of their sins, to hasten 
forever toward an unreachable goal. 

A curious curse has fallen upon our people; 

[ ^65 ] 



THE IV^rS OF mED^ 

an "influence" is at work which forces us to at- 
tempt in an hour just twice as much as can be 
accompHshed in sixty minutes. "Do as well as 
you can," whispers the "influence," "but do it 
quickly!" That motto might be engraved upon 
the fronts of our homes and business buildings. 

It is on account of this new standard that 
rapidity in a transa6lion on the Street is appre- 
ciated more than correctness of detail. A broker 
to-day will take more credit for having received 
and executed an order for Chicago and returned 
an answer within six minutes, than for any amount 
of careful work. The order may have been ill 
executed and the details mixed, but there will 
have been celerity of execution to boast of. 

The young man who expeds to succeed in 
business to-day must be a " hustler," have a snap- 
shot style in conversation, patronize rapid tran- 
sit vehicles, understand shorthand, and eat at 
"breathless breakfasts." 

Being taken recently to one of these estab- 
lishments for "quick lunch," as I believe the cor- 
re6t phrase is, to eat buckwheat cakes (and very 
good they were), I had an opportunity of studying 
the ways of the modern time-saving young man. 

It is his habit upon entering to dash for the 
bill-of-fare, and give an order (if he is adroit 
enough to catch one of the maids on the fly) 
before removing either coat or hat. At least fif- 
teen seconds may be economized in this way. 
Once seated, the luncher falls to on anything at 
[ 266 ] 



^ NATIOd^ IN J: hurry 

hand ; bread, cold slaw, crackers, or catsup. When 
the dish ordered arrives, he gets his fork into it 
as it appears over his shoulder, and has cleaned 
the plate before the sauce makes its appearance, 
so that is eaten by itself or with bread. 

Cups of coffee or tea go down in two swal- 
lows. Little piles of cakes are cut in quarters and 
disappear in four mouthfuls, much after the fash- 
ion of children down the ogre's throat in the 
mechanical toy, mastication being either a lost 
art or considered a foolish waste of energy. 

A really accomplished luncher can assimilate 
his last quarter of cakes, wiggle into his coat, and 
pay his check at the desk at the same moment. 
The next, he is down the block in pursuit of a 
receding trolley. 

To any one fresh from the Continent, where 
the entire machinery of trade comes to a stand- 
still from eleven to one o'clock, that dejeuner may 
be taken in somnolent tranquillity, the nervous 
tension pervading a restaurant here is prodigious, 
and what is worse — catching! During recent 
visits to the business centres of our city, I find 
that the idea of eating is repugnant. It seems to 
be wrong to waste time on anything so unpro- 
du6live. Last week a friend offered me a "lunch- 
eon tablet" from a box on his desk. "It's as 
good as a meal," he said, "and so much more 
expeditious!" 

The proprietor of one down-town restaurant 
has the stock quotations exhibited on a black- 

[ ^67 ] 



THE w^rs OF mEO^ 

board at the end of his room; in this way his 
patrons can keep in touch with the "Street" as 
they hurriedly stoke up. 

A parlor car, toward a journey's end, is another 
excellent place to observe our native ways. Com- 
ing from Washington the other day my fellow- 
passengers began to show signs of restlessness 
near Newark. Books and papers were thrown 
aside; a general "uprising, unveiling" followed, 
accompanied by our objeftionable custom of 
having our clothes brushed in each other's faces. 
By the time Jersey City appeared on the hori- 
zon, every man, woman, and child in that car 
was jammed, baggage in hand, into the stuffy 
little passage which precedes the entrance, sway- 
ing and staggering about while the train backed 
and delayed. 

The explanation of this is quite simple. The 
"influence" was at work, preventing those people 
from acting like other civilized mortals, and re- 
maining seated until their train had come to a 
standstill. 

Being fresh from the "other side," and retain- 
ing some of my acquired calm, I sat in my chair! 
The surprise on the faces of the other passengers 
warned me, however, that it would not be safe 
to carry this pose too far. The porter, puzzled by 
the unaccustomed sight, touched me kindly on 
the shoulder, and asked if I "felt sick" ! So now, 
to avoid all aff^edation of superiority, I struggled 
into my great-coat, regardless of eighty degrees 
[ 268 ] 



j: natioo^ in ^ hurrt 

temperature in the car, and meekly joined the 
standing army of martyrs, to hurry, scampering 
with them from the still-moving car to the boat, 
and on to the trolley before the craft had been 
moored to its landing pier. 

In Paris, on taking an omnibus, you are given 
a number and the right to the first vacant seat. 
When the places in a "bus" are all occupied it 
receives no further occupants. Imagine a tradlion 
line attempting such a reform here ! There would 
be a riot, and the conductors hanged to the near- 
est trolley-poles in an hour! 

To prevent a citizen from crowding into an over- 
full vehicle, and stamping on its occupants in the 
process, would be to infringe one of his dearest 
privileges, not to mention his chance of riding free. 

A small boy of my acquaintance tells me he 
rarely finds it necessary to pay in a New York 
car. The conductors are too hurried and too 
preoccupied pocketing their share of the receipts 
to keep count. "When he passes, I just look 
blank!" remarked the ingenious youth. 

Of all the individuals, however, in the com- 
munity, our idle class suffer the most acutely 
from lack of time, though, like Charles Lamb's 
gentleman, they have all there is. 

From the moment a man of leisure, or his 
wife, wakens in the morning until they drop 
into a fitful slumber at night, their day is an 
agitated chase. No matter where or when you 
meet them, they are always on the wing. 
[ ^69 ] 



THE IF^rS OF mEO^ 

"Am I late again?" gasped a thin little wo- 
man to me the other evening, as she hurried into 
the drawing-room, where she had kept her guests 
and dinner waiting. " 1 've been so driven all day, 
I 'm a wreck!" A glance at her hatchet-faced 
husband revealed the fad; that he, too, was chas- 
ing after a stray half-hour lost somewhere in his 
youth. His color and most of his hair had gone 
in its pursuit, while his hands had acquired a 
twitch, as though urging on a tired steed. 

Go and ask that lady for a cup of tea at twi- 
light; ten to one she will receive you with her hat 
on, explaining that she has not had time to take 
it off since breakfast. If she writes to you, her 
notes are signed, "In great haste," or " In a tear- 
ing hurry." She is out of her house by half-past 
eight on most mornings, yet when calling she sits 
on the edge of her chair, and assures you that she 
has not a moment to stay, "has only run in," etc. 

Just what drives her so hard is a mystery, for 
beyond a vague charity meeting or two and some 
calls, she accomplishes little. Although wealthy 
and childless, with no cares and few worries, she 
succumbs to nervous prostration every two or 
three years, "from overwork." 

Listen to a compatriot's account of his Euro- 
pean trip! He will certainly tell you how short 
the ocean crossing was, giving hours and min- 
utes with zest, as though he had got ahead of 
Father Time in a transaction. Then follows a 
list of the many countries seen during his tour. 
[ 270 ] 



o/f NJTI03^ IN ^ HURRY 

I know a lady lying ill to-day because she 
would hurry herself and her children, in six 
weeks last summer, through a Continental tour 
that should have occupied three months. She had 
no particular reason for hurrying; indeed, she got 
ahead of her schedule, and had to wait in Paris 
for the steamer; a detail, however, that in no way 
diminished madame's pleasure in having done so 
much during her holiday. This same lady deplores 
lack of leisure hours, yet if she finds by her engage- 
ment book that there is a free week ahead, she will 
run to Washington or Lakewood, " for a change," 
or organize a party to Florida. 

To realize how our upper ten scramble through 
existence, one must also contrast their fidgety 
way of feeding with the bovine calm in which a 
German absorbs his nourishment and the hours 
Italians can pass over their meals; an American 
dinner party affords us the opportunity. 

There is an impression that the fashion for 
quickly served dinners came to us from England. 
If this is true (which I doubt; it fits too nicely 
with our temperament to have been imported), 
we owe H. R. H. a debt of gratitude, for nothing 
is so tiresome as too many courses needlessly 
prolonged. 

Like all converts, however, we are too zeal- 
ous. From oysters to fruit, dinners now are a 
breathless steeplechase, during which we take 
our viand hedges and champagne ditches at a 
dead run, with conversation pushed at much the 

[ 271 ] 



THE IF^rS OF 31 E^ 

same speed. To be silent would be to imply that 
one was not having a good time, so we rattle 
and gobble on toward the finger-bowl winning- 
post, only to find that rest is not there! 

As the hostess pilots the ladies away to the 
drawing-room, she whispers to her spouse," You 
won't smoke long, will you ? " So we are mulcted 
in the enjoyment of even that last resource of 
weary humanity, the cigar, and are hustled away 
from that and our coffee, only to find that our 
appearance is a signal for a general move. 

One of the older ladies rises; the next moment 
the whole circle, like a flock of frightened birds, 
are up and off, crowding each other in the hall- 
way, calling for their carriages, and confusing the 
unfortunate servants, who are trying to help 
them into their cloaks and overshoes. 

Bearing in mind that the guests come as late 
as they dare, without being absolutely uncivil, 
that dinners are served as rapidly as is physically 
possible, and that the circle breaks up as soon 
as the meal ends, one asks one's self in wonder 
why, if a dinner party is such a bore that it has 
to be scrambled through, coilte que coute^ we con- 
tinue to dine out? 

It is within the bounds of possibility that peo- 
ple may have reasons for hurrying through their 
days, and that dining out a la longue becomes a 
weariness. 

The one place, however, where you might ex- 
pert to find people reposeful and calm is at the 

[ ^72 ] 



exf NJTIOU^ IN ^ HURRT 

theatre. The labor of the day is then over; they 
have assembled for an hour or two of relaxation 
and amusement. Yet it is at the play that our 
restlessness is most apparent. Watch an audi- 
ence (which, be it remarked in passing, has ar- 
rived late) during the last ten minutes of a per- 
formance. No sooner do they discover that the 
end is drawing near than people begin to strug- 
gle into their wraps. By the time the players have 
lined up before the footlights the house is full 
of disappearing backs. 

Past, indeed, are the unruffled days when a 
heroine was expeded (after the aftion of a play 
had ended) to deliver the closing envoi dear to 
the writers of Queen Anne's day. Thackeray 
writes: — 

The play is done ! The curtain drops^ 
Slow falling to the prompter s bell! 

A moment yet the aSlor stops^ 

And looks aroundy to say farewell ! 

A comedian who attempted any such abuse 
of the situation to-day would find himself ad- 
dressing empty benches. Before he had finished 
the first line of his epilogue, most of his public 
would be housed in the rapid transit cars. No 
talent, no novelty holds our audiences to the end 
of a performance. 

On the opening night of the opera season this 
winter, one third of the "boxes" and orchestra 
stalls were vacant before Romeo (who, being a 
foreigner, was taking his time) had expired. 

[ 273 ] 



THE TF^rS OF m E D^ 

One overworked matron of my acquaintance 
has perfeded an ingenious and time-saving com- 
bination. By signalling from a window near her 
opera box to a footman below, she is able to get 
her carriage at least two minutes sooner than her 
neighbors. i 

During the last ad: of an opera like 'Tann- | 
hduser or Faust^ in which the inconsiderate com- 
poser has placed a musical gem at the end, this a 
lady is worth watching. After getting into her ^j 
wraps and overshoes she stands, hand on the door, 
at the back of her box, listening to the singers; 
at a certain moment she hurries to the window, 
makes her signal, scurries back, hears Calve pour 
her soul out in Anges purs, anges radieux^ yet 
manages to get down the stairs and into her car- 
riage before the curtain has fallen. 

We deplore the prevailing habit of "slouch"; 
yet if you think of it, this universal hurry is the 
cause of it. Our cities are left unsightly, because 
we cannot spare time to beautify them. Nervous 
diseases are distressingly prevalent ; still we hurry ! 
hurry!! hurry!!! until, as a diplomatist recently 
remarked to me, the whole nation seemed to him 
to be but five minutes ahead of an apopledic fit. 

The curious part of the matter is that after 
several weeks at home, much that was strange 
at first becomes quite natural to the traveller, who 
finds himself thinking with pity of benighted for- 
eigners and their humdrum ways, and would re- 
sent any attempts at reform. 

[ 274 ] 



^ NJTIOO^ IN J[ HURRY 

What, for instance, would replace for enter- 
prising souls the joy of taking their matutinal 
car at a flying leap, or the rapture of being first 
out of a theatre? What does part of a. last ad: 
or the "star song" matter in comparison with 
five minutes of valuable time to the good ? Like 
the river captains, we propose to run under full 
head of steam and get there, or b explode ! 



[ 275 ] 



I 



The Spirit of History ' 

BUILDINGS become tombs when the 
race that construfted them has disap- 
peared. Libraries and manuscripts are 
catacombs where most of us might wander in 
the dark forever, finding no issue. To know dead 
generations and their environments through 
these channels, to feel a love so strong that it 
calls the past forth from its winding-sheet, and 
gives it life again, as Christ did Lazarus, is the 
privilege only of great historians. 

France is honoring the memory of such a man 
at this moment; one who for forty years sought 
the vital spark of his country's existence, striv- 
ing to resuscitate what he called "the great soul 
of history," as it developed through successive 
ad;s of the vast drama. This employment of his 
genius is Michelet's title to fame. 

In a sombre strud:ure, the tall windows of 
which look across the Luxembourg trees to the 
Pantheon, where her husband's bust has recently 
been placed, a widow preserves with religious 
care the souvenirs of this great historian. Noth- 
ing that can recall either his life or his labor is 
changed. 

Madame Michelet's life is in strange contrast 
with the ways of the modern spouse who, under 
pretext of grief, discards and displaces every re- 

[ ^76 ] 



THE SPIRIT OF HISTORT 

minder of the dead. In our day, when the great 
art is to forget, an existence consecrated to a 
memory is so rare that the world might be the 
better for knowing that a woman Hves who, 
young and beautiful, was happy in the society 
of an old man, whose genius she appreciated and 
cherished, who loves him dead as she loved him 
living. By her care the apartment remains as it 
stood when he left it, to die at Hyeres, — the 
furniture, the paintings, the writing-table. No 
stranger has sat in his chair, no acquaintance has 
drunk from his cup. This woman, who was a 
perfedl wife and now fills one's ideal of what a 
widow's life should be, has constituted herself 
the vigilant guardian of her husband's memory. 
She loves to talk of the illustrious dead, and tell 
how he was fond of saying that Virgil and Vico 
were his parents. Any one who reads the Geor- 
gics or 'The Bird will see the truth of this, for 
he loved all created things, his ardent spiritism 
perceiving that the essence which moved the 
ocean's tides was the same that sang in the robin 
at the window during his last illness, which he 
called his "little captive soul." 

The author of La Bible de VHumanite had 
to a supreme degree the love of country, and 
possessed the power of reincarnating with each 
succeeding cycle of its history. So luminous was 
his mind, so profound and far-reaching his sym- 
pathy, that he understood the obscure workings 
of the mediaeval mind as clearly as he appreciated 

[ 277 ] 



THE JV^rS OF mEO^ 

Mirabeau's transcendent genius. He believed 
that humanity, like Prometheus, was self-made; 
that nations modelled their own destiny during 
the anions and readions of history, as each one 
of us acquires a personality through the struggles 
and temptations of existence, by the evolving 
power every soul carries within itself. 

Michelet taught that each nation was the hero 
of its own drama; that great men have not been 
different from the rest of their race, — on the con- 
trary, being the condensation of an epoch, that, 
no matter what the apparent eccentricities of a 
leader may have been, he was the expression of 
a people's spirit. This discovery that a race is 
transformed by its a6lion upon itself and upon 
the elements it absorbs from without, wipes away 
at a stroke the popular belief in "predestined 
races" or providential "great men" appearing 
at crucial moments and riding vidlorious across 
the world. 

An historian, if what he writes is to have any 
value, must know the people, the one great his- 
torical fadlor. Radicalism in history is the begin- 
ning of truth. Guided by this light of his own, 
Michelet discovered a fresh faftor heretofore un- 
noticed, that vast fermentation which in France 
transforms all foreign elements into an integral 
part of the country's being. After studying his 
own land through the thirteen centuries of her 
growth, from the chart of Childebert to the will 
of Louis XVI., Michelet declared that while 

[ 278 ] 



THE SPIIi^IT OF HISTORT 

England is a composite empire and Germany a 
region, France is a personality. In consequence 
he regarded the history of his country as a long 
dramatic poem. Here we reach the inner thought 
of the historian, the secret impulse that guided 
his majestic pen. 

The veritable hero of his splendid Iliad is at 
first ignorant and obscure, seeking passionately 
like CEdipus to know himself The interest of 
the piece is absorbing. We can follow the gradual 
development of his nature as it becomes more 
attra6tive and sympathetic with each advancing 
age, until, through the hundred ads of the trag- 
edy, he achieves a soul. For Michelet to write 
the history of his country was to describe the 
long evolution of a hero. He was fond of telling 
his friends that during the Revolution of July, 
while he was making his translation of Vico, this 
great fa6l was revealed to him in the blazing vis- 
ion of a people in revolt. At that moment the 
young and unknown author resolved to devote 
his life, his talents, his gift of clairvoyance, the 
magic of his inimitable style and creative genius, 
to fixing on paper the features seen in his vi- 
sion. 

Conceived and executed in this spirit, his 
history could be but a stupendous epic, and 
proves once again the truth of Aristotle's asser- 
tion that there is often greater truth in poetry 
than in prose. 

Seeking in the remote past for the origin of 

[ 279 ] 



THE W^rS OF mEO^ 

his hero, Michelet pauses first before the Cathe- 
dral. The poem begins hke some medieeval tale. 
The first years of his youthful country are de- 
voted to a mystic religion. Under his ardent 
hands vast naves rise and belfries touch the 
clouds. It is but a sad and cramped develop- 
ment, however; statutes restrain his young ardor 
and chill his blood. It is not until the boy is be- 
hind the plough in the fields and sunlight that 
his real life begins — a poor, brutish existence, 
if you will, but still life. The "Jacques," half 
man and half beast, of the Middle Ages is the 
result of a thousand years of suffering. 

A woman's voice calls this brute to arms. An 
enemy is overrunning the land. Joan the virgin 
— "my Joan," Michelet calls her — whose heart 
bleeds when blood is shed, frees her country. A 
shadow, however, soon obscures this gracious 
vision from Jacques's eyes. The vast monarchi- 
cal incubus rises between the people and their 
ideal. Our historian turns in disgust from the later 
French kings. He has neither time nor heart to 
write their history, so passes quickly from Louis 
XI. to the great climax of his drama — the Rev- 
olution. There we find his hero, emerging at 
last from tyranny and oppression. Freedom and 
happiness are before him. Alas ! his eyes, accus- 
tomed to the dim light of dungeons, are dazzled 
by the sun of liberty; he strikes friend and foe 
alike. 

In the solitary galleries of the "Archives" 

[ 280 ] 



THE SPI1{^ir OF HISTORT 

Michelet communes with the great spirits of that 
day, Desaix, Marceau, Kleber, — elder sons of 
the Republic, who whisper many secrets to their 
pupil as he turns over faded pages tied with tri- 
colored ribbons, where the cities of France have 
written their affedlion for liberty, love-letters from 
Jacques to his mistress. Michelet is happy. His 
long labor is drawing to an end. The great epic 
which he has followed as it developed through 
the centuries is complete. His hero stands hand 
in hand before the altar with the spouse of his 
choice, for whose smile he has toiled and strug- 
gled. The poet-historian sees again in the Fete 
de la Federation the radiant face of his vision, the 
true face of France, La Dulce. 

Through all the lyricism of this master's work 
one feels that he has "lived" history as he wrote 
it, following his subjed: from its obscure genesis 
to a radiant apotheosis. The faithful companion 
of Michelet's age has borne witness to this power 
which he possessed of projed:ing himself into 
another age and living with his subjed:. She re- 
peats to those who know her how he trembled in 
passion and burned with patriotic emotion in 
transcribing the crucial pages of his country's 
history, rejoicing in her successes and depressed 
by her faults, like the classic historian who re- 
fused with horror to tell the story of his com- 
patriots' defeat at Cannae, saying, "I could not 
survive the recital." 

"Do you remember," a friend once asked Ma- 

[ 281 ] 



THE W^rS OF ^EJ^ 

dame Michelet, "how, when your husband was 
writing his chapters on the Reign of Terror, he 
ended by falling ill?" 

"Ah, yes!" she replied. "That was the week 
he executed Danton. We were living in the 
country near Nantes. The ground was covered 
with snow. I can see him now, hurrying to and 
fro under the bare trees, gesticulating and cry- 
ing as he walked, *How can I judge them, those 
great men? How can I judge them?' It was in 
this way that he threw his 'thousand souls' into 
the past and lived in sympathy with all men, an 
apostle of universal love. After one of these 
fecund hours he would drop into his chair and 
murmur, 'I am crushed by this work. I have 
been writing with my blood!'" 

Alas, his aged eyes were destined to read sad- 
der pages than he had ever written, to see years 
as tragic as the "Terror." He lived to hear the 
recital of (having refused to witness) his country's 
humiliation, and fell one April morning, in his 
retirement near Pisa, unconscious under the dou- 
ble shock of invasion and civil war. Though he 
recovered later, his horizon remained dark. The 
patriot suffered to see party spirit and warring fac- 
tions rending the nation he had so often called 
the pilot of humanity's bark, which seemed now 
to be going straight on the rocks. " Finis Gai/i^,'' 
murmured the historian, who to the end lived 
and died with his native land. 

Thousands yearly mount the broad steps of 
[ 282 ] 



THE SPIQ{^IT OF HISTORT 

the Pantheon to lay their wreaths upon his tomb, 
and thousands more in every Gallic schoolroom 
are daily learning, in the pages of his history, to 
love France la Duke. 



THE END 



By Eliot Gregory 

(''An Idler'') 

WORLDLY WAYS AND BYWAYS 

i2mo ^1.50 

PRESS NOTICES 

The Idler's papers have long been known to New York 
readers as being brief and pointed essays on the philoso- 
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society devotee as well as to the sociologist. The quali- 
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are perhaps equalled by no other local writer in belles 
lettres. — New York Times Saturday Review. 

It is so full of faithful observation, of worldly but whole- 
some wisdom, and it is withal couched in such good- 
humored terms, that we find it decidedly entertaining. 
The wide experience and excellent reading shown in 
the book, with the author's cleverness in the portrayal 
and analysis of familiar types, make him a welcome and 
interesting commentator on manners. — The'New York 
Tribune. 

A handsome, very dignified and artistic edition, expres- 
sive of the charm and dignity of the essays it contains. 
— The Hartford Courant. 



IT 
Mr. Gregory ranges " from grave to gay, from lively to 
severe," hitting Folly as she flies before him vi^ith cap 
and bells ; and much he says here our sober conscience 
must approve. He has a pleasing w^ay of presenting 
things, a tone more of good-humored banter than of 
blame, and not a few stray bits of philosophy have here 
and there slipped in betvv^een the lines, w^hile some home, 
truths are pressed upon us. — Detroit Free Press. 

"Worldly Ways and Byways" presents some very at- 
tractive qualities to the meditative reader. It contains the 
observations and meditations of a man who has time to 
look at life and men and manners, and time also to write 
about them. It is the work of an observer of culture and 
insight, with excellent standards, and with a thorough 
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Mr. Gregory is slightly cynical, frequently serious, oc- 
casionally witty, generally amusing, and at all times in- 
teresting. — Cleveland Plain Dealer. 

There is probably no writer on this side of the Atlantic 
who could do quite so well as Eliot Gregory the sort 
of thing found in this delightful colle6lion of unpreten- 
tious essays. — The Springfield Republican. 

Charles Scribner's Sons, Publishers 
153-157 fifth avenue, new york 



I 



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